Sherlock: Needed
by IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: Mycroft Holmes tries to kill himself with an overdose of cocaine, leaving everybody in his life to question why. But only one person gets the answer. See warnings inside. ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
1. You're Dragging On

**SHERLOCK**

**NEEDED**

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**Main Pairing: **Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade

**Side Pairing: **Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

**Note: **Re-formatted and edited as of 17/04/2013

**Warnings: **Graphic m/m sex, explicit language, drug use/abuse, alcoholism/alcohol abuse, suicide attempt/suicidal thoughts, depression, self-harm, OOC moments

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steve Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

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><p><strong>Chapter One: You're Dragging On, Your Heart's Been Broken<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>The Forgotten by Green Day

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><p><em>Sherlock yawned and opened his eyes. They were blue, the brightest blue Mycroft had ever seen.<em>

'_Hello,' he said, leaning on the tips of his toes to see into the crib. 'I'm your big brother, Mycroft. I'm here to take care of you.'_

_Sherlock scowled and for the first time Mycroft could remember, a real smile spread across his own face._

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><p>Mycroft Holmes blinked back the tears that threatened to break free. He was sitting in his expensive, sterile flat. Everything was silent and dark, the only light the small lamp to his right. He had a bottle of scotch in one hand and had long ago given up drinking from a glass.<p>

It had been years since Mycroft had allowed this feeling to take hold; this black hopelessness that surged through his body like sludge, poison. He'd always managed to push it away, to focus on more important things like taking care of Sherlock and running Britain. But now... now none of that mattered.

Sherlock had Doctor Watson. John Watson was a good man; smart, funny, incredibly loyal and brave. He was the only person who actually liked Sherlock, who put up with him voluntarily. They'd started as colleagues before moving onto a real friendship. And now? Well, now they were lovers, _husbands_; Sherlock Holmes was actually in love with someone.

Mycroft was happy, he didn't want anybody to think otherwise. He was absolutely thrilled that his brother had found somebody to love. But at the same time it was like Mycroft was being pushed away. Sherlock had always forced Mycroft away but it was different now. Now Sherlock didn't actually need Mycroft. He had John.

On the outside Mycroft Holmes had done a lot with his life. He'd raised his brother, had a fantastic job running the British government, and spent his rare free time making sure the projects he had his fingers in were still running smoothly. Other than that, though, Mycroft had nothing; no friends, no lover, no children. All he had was Sherlock.

And now Sherlock didn't need him anymore.

Which was why Mycroft was sitting at home on a Friday evening getting drunk. The alcohol swirled through his body nicely, numbing the black hatred that Mycroft felt coil in his gut. It had always been there as long as he could remember.

At the age of twelve Mycroft had diagnosed himself with Bipolar II disorder. Nobody else knew, although maybe Sherlock did. Mycroft had never wanted to do anything about it. He'd never been suicidal so what was the point? It didn't matter if Mycroft was happy; Sherlock mattered, that was all.

It was different now. Sherlock was truly happy. He had John, he had cases, he actually had friends. Mycroft? He had nothing but a few posh suits and an expensive PA. There was nobody out there who needed Mycroft, who would smile at his presence. Sherlock scowled whenever he saw his brother.

It was fine, though. It was all fine. Mycroft had long ago resigned himself to feeling this way. He'd just never expected Sherlock to find somebody. And now that he had...

Mycroft placed his scotch bottle on the glass table, a rattling sound echoing in his ear as glass hit glass. He removed his waistcoat and untucked his shirt; might as well be comfortable. Slowly, and with practiced ease, Mycroft rolled up his left sleeve. The silk slowly and smoothly settled above his elbow, giving Mycroft a view of his pale skin.

He was very freckled and always had been. But his skin was marred with track mark; little black circles, small scabs, long cuts that Mycroft had made by picking and scratching at his arm; they were the only evidence of his drug use. Mycroft Holmes was very good at keeping his drug taking a secret. Unlike Sherlock.

Mycroft picked up the tourniquet and fastened it around his bicep. He'd prepared the liquid earlier and sucked it into the syringe, smiling as he flexed his left hand. Cocaine. Always useful when Mycroft was having these black days. Sherlock had taken drugs to keep his brain busy. Mycroft took them to shut his brain up.

Thick blue veins popped up under thin pale skin and Mycroft smiled. He slipped the needle into his arm, inhaling sharply at the tiny pinch. He pushed down on the plunger, injecting the drug into his system.

He withdrew the needle and dropped it on the table before pulling off the tourniquet. Now he settled back onto the couch with his bottle of scotch, sipping and waiting for the high to hit.

Mycroft gasped; _ah, there it was._ The euphoria of cocaine slashing through him. Mycroft smiled before groaning, head flopping back and hands curling into fists.

_Too much, _his brain told him. _You took far too much._

_I know!_ he spat at himself. _That's the point!_

'Too much, too much,' Mycroft slurred, grinning to himself. He'd never taken too much in the past. But that was the past. It didn't matter now.

Someone was knocking on his door. Mycroft turned to stare at it, already feeling unconsciousness pull at him. When he fell asleep there would be no waking up, not now. He smiled.

'_Mr Holmes_?'

Mycroft frowned. He knew that voice. But from where?

'_Mr Holmes, its Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to talk to you._'

Mycroft nodded along to the words. Ah, DI Lestrade. Handsome man, smart, able to handle Sherlock. Right, yes.

'_Mr Holmes, your assistant said you were home._'

Mycroft stood and a wave of nausea washed over him. 'Oh,' he groaned as pain prickled at his stomach and skin, his head thumping and his heart jumping. '_Oh_.'

He dropped the bottle of scotch and it smashed into the table. Glass rained down on the carpet and Mycroft felt like it was raining down on him. Sharp stabs of pain were spearing through his head and he groaned.

'_Mr Holmes_?' the voice was getting louder now, more urgent. '_Are you okay_?'

No, he wasn't okay. But that was fine, right? Because Mycroft wanted this; he'd purposely injected too much. Sherlock didn't need him anymore, Mycroft's job was done. He could let go; let the cold black sludge take him.

He stumbled and fell to his knees, feeling glass penetrate his expensive trousers. The small stabs of pain didn't matter as Mycroft rolled onto his back. He blinked, staring up at the ceiling. Already his heart was slowing, his brain was calming, and everything was just _so _good.

The door smashed open as Mycroft closed his eyes.


	2. It All Keeps Adding Up

**Chapter Two: It All Keeps Adding Up, I Think I'm Cracking Up**

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><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>Basket Case by Green Day

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><p><em>Mycroft stood against the wall listening as his parents fought. They were arguing about Sherlock; they always argued about Sherlock. But then Mycroft heard his own name and pressed his ear to the door.<em>

'_He's just weird, Cam!' Mycroft's father, Sherrinford, shouted. 'Mycroft... he isn't normal!'_

_Mycroft felt his heart twist as Camille answered, 'Don't say that about our son.'_

'_At least Sherlock enjoys things!' Sherrinford said. 'What does Mycroft do? Sits and reads, stares at you!' His words were slightly slurred; he was drunk. Of course, that was nothing different. But the words... they stung, they hurt. They added to the pool of black that had encased Mycroft as long as he could remember._

_Camille sighed. 'Ford, please. Don't say those things. Mycroft's a normal teenager.'_

'_Normal?' Sherrinford snorted. 'Fucking poofter.'_

_Mycroft winced and put his hands over his ears. No, he didn't want to hear anymore. He didn't want to hear his father's words. Because they were true, all of them._

'_My?'_

_Mycroft turned to see Sherlock standing at the end of the hall. His bright blue eyes looked at the door and he frowned. Their parents' voices were getting louder._

'_Go... go back to bed, Sherlock,' Mycroft said._

'_Read me a story?' Sherlock asked._

_Mycroft paused. He didn't want to do anything. He wanted to crawl under his bed and hide there forever. Let the blackness come; let it swallow him. Then he wouldn't have to deal with... with life_

'_Please?' Sherlock asked and held out a hand. 'I need my brother.'_

_His parents' voices didn't seem so hurtful when Mycroft heard that. He nodded and walked down the hall to take Sherlock's hand. It was warm and clasped his fingers gently as Mycroft led his little brother up the stairs. As long as Sherlock needed him everything would be fine._

* * *

><p>'What happened?'<p>

His brother's voice woke Mycroft and he tried to open his eyes. But he couldn't move, couldn't blink. He could breathe, which was something. Mycroft had never planned on breathing again. So he was alive...

Ah, yes. The cold, black feeling made his stomach clench painfully. Yes, he was alive... annoyingly alive.

Again Mycroft tried to move but he couldn't. It was as though a blanket had been laid over him, pinning him to the... bed. He was in a bed. He couldn't see or blink or move at all. Mycroft tried not to panic and managed to swallow it down, ignoring the stabs at his arms. Why did everything hurt?

'Well, he tried to kill himself.'

Mycroft paused from his inner turmoil to focus on the voices. Were they talking about him? And who was talking?

'Yes, you've said that, but I find it hard to believe.'

Sherlock... that was Sherlock. Why was he here? He was supposed to be in America on his honeymoon with John. Why would Sherlock be back already?

Someone sighed and shifted to Mycroft's right. He wished he could move to see who it was.

'I found him on the floor of his flat,' the voice said. Oh, Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft knew him. 'He was... I dunno, it looked like a seizure so I called an ambulance. They said it was a cocaine overdose and alcohol poisoning. They had to pump his stomach.'

Mycroft wanted to slap the man. Who was he to talk about Mycroft to Sherlock? Who the bloody hell was Greg Lestrade to say anything?

'I still find it hard to believe,' Sherlock said slowly. 'Mycroft... why would he do such a thing?'

'Has he...' A new voice, this one soft and kind. John Watson. 'Sherlock, how long has he been a drug addict?'

'I wasn't aware that he was,' Sherlock said, 'I didn't... I didn't see it.'

'Really?' Lestrade asked. 'I mean, sorry, but how could you not see it?'

'We don't spend a lot of time together, Lestrade!' Sherlock snapped in his usual aggressive tone. But there was no vehemence there, no actual anger. There was fear and loss and... Mycroft was having a hard time placing the emotions in his brother's voice. If only he could move and look! If he could look at Sherlock he could tell what he was feeling!

'Right, sorry,' Greg said.

Sherlock sighed, a gut-clenching sigh that made Mycroft want to hold him. He hated hearing his brother that... broken.

'I didn't know,' Sherlock mumbled and shifted in his seat. 'John?'

John stood from wherever he was sitting and grabbed something; papers. 'I've looked over his medical records,' he said and paused, no doubt looking at Sherlock. 'He's... I'm not sure you want to hear this, Sherlock.'

'I need to,' Sherlock said, sounding desperate. 'Please.'

John sighed. 'Well, he's a regular cocaine user; injects it. You can see the track marks all over his arms. He also cuts himself a little, just small stabs with a razor blade, no doubt for the pain. He doesn't eat properly; anorexic most likely. He drinks far too much, smokes far too much, and... well...'

'Well?' Greg asked and he sounded just as shaken as Sherlock and John. Mycroft didn't understand why. He didn't know Greg Lestrade, not really.

'It doesn't say here but all of this adds to a serious case of depression. I don't know how long but he's definitely not well. The fact that he tried to kill himself backs my theory.'

There was more rustling and suddenly pounding footsteps. No doubt Sherlock was pacing back and forth beside the... hospital bed? Yes, hospital bed. Mycroft could smell the chemicals, feel the sheets and gown he was wearing.

But why couldn't he move? He wanted to scream and hurl abuse. He wanted to tell them that he was fine, that he didn't need them to worry. So what if he was depressed? So what if he'd never really enjoyed anything? They didn't need to know, Mycroft didn't want them to. Why couldn't he have died when he'd wanted? Why did Gregory Lestrade have to ruin everything?

'I don't understand,' Sherlock said, the beginnings of a rant forming. 'He's always... no, wait, I've never seen my brother enjoy anything other than tormenting me. But even then... no, he only did it to please me. How could I not see this? He's never enjoyed anything, _ever_. He doesn't watch television or read or anything. He just works and watches me... why would he do this? Why wouldn't he tell me? I would understand, I of all people would understand. But... I don't...'

He trailed off and fell heavily back into his seat. Mycroft could imagine him staring, wide-eyed as his brain tried to figure everything out. No doubt he was running through a lot of memories of Mycroft and piecing everything together. He'd know it all in a matter of minutes.

Mycroft tried squirming again and felt his fingers twitch. It brought a wave of pain up his arms and Mycroft swallowed again. His rather large, intelligent mind was already doing calculations; Mycroft had the feeling he'd been asleep for a while.

If so, he'd already gone through the very worse stages of detoxing. He'd still get the sweats, shivers, nausea, headaches, all the smaller symptoms. But, luckily, he seemed to have been unconcious when his body went through the first few days of detox.

Mycroft pushed those thoughts away; it didn't matter. As soon as he got home he'd take more cocaine; he'd do it right this time. He just had to sit up and send everyone away.

'Greg, thank you,' John said as Mycroft worked on getting movement back to his body. He wanted to shout at Dr Watson to just shut up. 'If you haven't been there...'

'No worries,' Greg said and Mycroft wished he could glare at him. 'I was going over to ask for his help like Sherlock suggested. I heard a crash and broke the door down. Remind me to get it replaced.'

'It's already been done.' A new voice... his name-changing assistant, Anthea, or whatever she was going by that day. Mycroft would have sighed if he could. Great, why didn't they just call Mummy too? Make it a goddamn party.

'I'll still pay for it,' Greg said.

'Couldn't Scotland Yard?' John asked.

'I wasn't there officially,' Greg said. 'I'd rather my boss don't know I can't handle a case without Sherlock Holmes. I'm so pathetic I needed his brother.'

Mycroft paused. He could move his arms now and the feeling was spreading throughout his body. Why would Greg need him? It didn't make sense. Lestrade was a good DI, smart, he didn't need Sherlock's help on every case. Why would he come to Mycroft for help?

He blinked and winced, the bright lights overhead stinging his eyes. There was a collective gasp as the group turned to watch Mycroft stir. Mycroft sat and felt nausea flood his system, bringing a tide of inky blackness that made his heart hurt. Despite himself he groaned and grabbed at his chest. Why couldn't it go away? Why did he have to deal with all this anger, this hurt, this... emptiness? Why couldn't he just be left in peace?

His body was aching, his skin itching. How long had it been since he had a drink? Or a cigarette? Cocaine?

_Three or four days at the least, _his mind supplied immediately.

Mycroft's eyes slowly adjusted to the room and he looked around. As he'd thought, Sherlock was sitting to his left with his husband standing behind him, one of the doctor's hands on Sherlock's shoulder. Anthea was at the door, BlackBerry lowered, eyes wide as they raked over her boss. To his right was Greg Lestrade. He looked tired, worn-out, and reeked of cigarette smoke. His face was covered in stubble and his eyes were bruised from lack of sleep.

Mycroft supposed he wouldn't look any better. Four days unconcious would have done little for his usual sickly appearance.

Once again Mycroft found himself having to focus. This was what he hated about hospitals and drugs other than cocaine and alcohol; they didn't shut his brain up, they just made him slow. And he couldn't afford to be slow around Sherlock.

'Hello,' Mycroft said, voice croaking from lack of use. A glass of water was pressed into his hands and Mycroft scowled at Greg as he sipped from it. 'Thank you.'

'For the water or saving your life?'

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. 'For the water, Detective Inspector.'

Greg smiled at him, part amused, part pissed off. He took the water back and set it down on the table. 'Well, Mr Holmes, you're an idiot.'

'Really? That's news to me, Detective,' Mycroft said, glad that his voice was returning to normal. 'Please leave and allow me to collect evidence. I will get back to you when I can support or dispute your hypothesis.'

Greg snorted. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

'And why is that?'

Greg shrugged. 'Sherlock and John need me.'

'My brother doesn't need anyone, Detective.' He did a good job of hiding the hurt by flicking his eyes over to Anthea. 'Can you please have me discharged? I don't need to be here.'

'What?' John gasped. 'Mycroft, you... you...'

'Yes, John?' Mycroft asked. John looked confused, angry, hurt. Greg was glaring at him, Anthea frowning and Sherlock... Sherlock was blank. Mycroft didn't understand why they were all here. He didn't need help. He was perfectly fine.

'You tried to kill yourself,' Greg supplied when John failed to speak for another minute.

'I did no such thing,' Mycroft lied. 'I merely took too much cocaine. A simple mistake, I assure you.'

'A... what?'

Mycroft sighed and looked at the DI once more. 'I made a mistake, Detective Inspector. Junkies do it all the time. I assure you that I am quite alright.'

Silence followed his words and Mycroft looked around. He wanted to leave, to get away from their glares. They were looking at him like he was damaged, broken, and Mycroft sighed. He'd been alone the past forty-four years with this... with this crap that flowed through his veins. Why the sudden interest now? Mycroft, for once in his life, did not understand. Really, why couldn't they leave him alone?

'It will not happen again,' Mycroft lied, already planning to lock himself away at home and administer a much more effective dose. 'Feel free to leave at any time.'

Greg folded his arms, John shifted from foot to foot, Anthea nearly dropped her BlackBerry, and Sherlock...

... Sherlock absolutely exploded.


	3. Nobody Knows Who I Really Am

**Chapter Three: Nobody Knows Who I Really Am**

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><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>Life Is Like A Boat by Rie Fu

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><p>'<em>Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?'<em>

_A gasp made Mycroft turn, dropping his umbrella. The flat was in disarray._

'_Sherlock?'_

_Another whimper had Mycroft pushing into the one bedroom. There were clothes everywhere as well as books, bottles, food wrappers. And nestled amongst it all was Sherlock, long arms curled around his legs._

'_Sherlock?'_

'_I need... please...' Sherlock mumbled._

_Mycroft crouched beside his brother. 'Sherlock, what happened?'_

_Finally the genius looked up and Mycroft could see the hurt, the anger, the utter humiliation Sherlock was feeling._

'_My?'_

'_Yes?'_

'_I need... help...'_

'_I'll help you, Sherlock.'_

'_Really?'_

_Mycroft pulled him in for a hug and for once Sherlock let him. He curled around his brother and whimpered. 'Of course, Sherlock. I'll always help you.'_

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><p>'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE FINE?' Sherlock demanded, long, thin fingers curling into fists. He was on his feet now, glaring down at Mycroft. 'YOU TRIED TO KILL YOURSELF, MYCROFT! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? WHY WOULD YOU THINK KILLING YOURSELF IS A GOOD IDEA? YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON WHO UNDERSTANDS HOW MY MIND WORKS, WHY WOULD YOU TAKE YOURSELF AWAY FROM ME? I DON'T FUCKING UNDERSTAND!'<p>

Mycroft squirmed slightly on the bed. Like Mycroft, Sherlock barely swore. When he did it was because he was very, very angry. Mycroft didn't like it.

'I MEAN, WHAT A STUPID, _STUPID_,IDIOTIC THING TO DO! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS, MYCROFT! WHY... HOW... TELL ME!'

Mycroft didn't know what Sherlock wanted from him. He didn't like listening to people shout, it annoyed him. Really, people should control themselves better.

'MYCROFT!' Sherlock snapped.

He sighed and rubbed his bruised eyes. They felt itchy and sore. 'I do 't know what you want from me, Sherlock.'

Sherlock glared. 'I want to know why you think suicide is okay!'

'I don't think suicide is okay.'

'Than why would you try it?'

'I didn't.' Sherlock scowled and folded his arms. Before he could say anything Mycroft continued, 'I did not try to kill myself, brother. As I said before I merely made a mistake when mixing the solution. I failed to take into account the months in-between that hit and my last.'

Sherlock's arms tightened. His entire body was thrumming with barely suppressed rage. John moved around the corner and put a hand on his husband, gold wedding band glinting in the light. Sherlock physically relaxed, but only slightly.

'Mycroft...' Sherlock began and swallowed, biting his bottom lip.

John stepped forward. 'Sherlock is just trying to understand, Mycroft.'

'Understand what?' Mycroft asked.

'Why you... why you would do something like try to kill yourself,' John said. 'We... please, help us understand.'

'I _am_ trying,' Mycroft said and shifted in the bed. He didn't like that his arms were showing; his track marks were there for everybody to see. 'I did _not _try to kill myself,' he lied. 'I simply made a mistake–'

'How often do you make mistakes?' Greg cut in and Mycroft glared at him. 'I mean, honestly. From what John and Sherlock have told me... well, I find it hard to believe that you'd make a mistake like overdosing accidently.'

'I am human, Detective Inspector,' Mycroft said, 'and humans make mistakes.'

'But _you _don't!' Sherlock said, voice rising again. He shook John's arm free and leapt forward to stare directly into Mycroft's eyes. 'You do _not _make mistakes, brother. Please, I'm begging you, just tell me why you did this.'

Sherlock, begging? He really was upset. Mycroft leaned back and turned away, unable to look at the hurt in Sherlock's eyes. While his little brother rarely showed genuine emotions other than joy and anger, when he did show them they were powerful. Mycroft couldn't stand to lie directly to Sherlock, not while he was like this.

'I... I'm fine,' Mycroft croaked and reached for the water again.

Sherlock stepped back, bright blue eyes raking over Mycroft carefully. 'Fine!' he snapped, 'I can't... I don't...' He balled his hands into fists once more and left quickly, ripping the door open and storming out. John sighed before following, leaving Mycroft with Anthea and Lestrade.

They sat in silence, Greg and Anthea staring at Mycroft. He fidgeted with the blanket, not sure what to do. Mycroft was completely out of his depth here. He'd been in hospital before, mostly after attacks on himself and his assistant. Nobody had visited then, only Anthea, and Mycroft had been busy working.

But now he was stuck in a room with a worried assistant and equally worried stranger. He really didn't know what to do.

'Are you seriously going to lie and say you made a mistake?'

Mycroft looked up at Greg. His dark brown eyes were worried and narrowed, raking over Mycroft quickly.

'I'm not lying,' Mycroft said. Maybe he could convince the DI, who could convince John. John was the only person who could make Sherlock believe something. 'I miscalculated–'

'Don't give me that bullshit,' Greg scoffed and leaned back. He put his hands behind his head, shirt hiking up to show a sliver of skin. Mycroft's eyes, of their own accord, slipped down to eye the tanned skin. 'I've seen plenty of people try to kill themselves, Mr Holmes. And you definitely tried to kill yourself.'

Mycroft turned away. 'You're being ridiculous.'

'Lie all you want, it's not going to change the facts,' Greg said. 'There's no way Sherlock will ever believe that you made a mistake. So accept that he, John and myself are going to keep an eye on you until you admit it and get some help.'

'You?' Mycroft asked and turned to look at him. 'Why would you want to help me? Not that I need help,' he added the last part quickly.

Greg smiled. 'Sherlock and John are my friends; friends help each other. You had some type of breakdown and Sherlock and John will be there for you. I'll be there for them.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'I did _not _have a breakdown.'

'Lie all you want,' Greg said, smiling as Mycroft looked him in the eye. 'We don't believe you.'

Mycroft scowled. Gregory was right, of course. Sherlock would never believe that Mycroft would make a mistake like accidently overdosing on cocaine. John was a doctor, he'd seen people try to kill themselves plenty of times.

'I'm fine,' Mycroft insisted. 'I didn't have a breakdown nor did I try to kill myself.'

Greg just smiled irritatingly and Mycroft glared.


	4. It Burns Inside of Me

**Chapter Four: It Burns Inside of Me**

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><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>Sober by Muse

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><p><em>Sherlock shivered and leaned back on the couch, drawing the blanket over himself. He moaned and rubbed his bruised eyes.<em>

'_How are you feeling?' Mycroft asked. He knew, of course. Mycroft knew everything. But he wanted to hear it from Sherlock._

'_Detoxing... is... boring,' Sherlock managed._

_Mycroft smiled. 'If you hadn't started the drugs you wouldn't be detoxing, brother.'_

_Sherlock glared at him and Mycroft wondered how he would react if he knew Mycroft himself took cocaine. Sherlock's eyes drifted away and he moaned, flopping onto his side to stare at the TV._

_Mycroft scratched at his arm, his skin feeling tender beneath cotton. He was so close to detoxing himself. But Sherlock needed him and Mycroft would continue taking the drugs in secret. He needed the drugs... they calmed him, made his mind slow down._

_There was no need for Sherlock to know that._

* * *

><p>Mycroft fidgeted, his skin itching and his eyes feeling bruised. He needed cocaine but the people surrounding him weren't going to let him. His assistant was tapping at her BlackBerry, informing him that he was on sick leave until further notice. Mycroft didn't care, not anymore. He just wanted the itching to stop; he wanted the blackness, the thoughts, everything to stop. He wanted to stop breathing and thinking and feeling. Why wouldn't anybody help him?<p>

'Sir?'

'What?' he snapped. Anthea's eyes went wide and Mycroft shifted. He didn't like this; he didn't like people seeing this side of him. He preferred if everybody thought of him as the aloof, all-powerful genius. Not the broken, dark man he really was. 'I apologise, that was rude.'

'Not to worry, sir,' Anthea said but her lips pressed together. She hadn't asked if he had intended to kill himself; like everybody else she knew. She also knew that Mycroft would never actually tell her.

Anthea had been with Mycroft for almost five years now and she'd seen him hungover, stumbling home after three days of binging. Him looking tired, sick, and snapping at her was hardly new.

There was a knock and the door swished open. It was Greg Lestrade, a man who seemed intent on visiting Mycroft every day and annoying him. A few hours after waking up Mycroft had learned that he'd been correct; he'd been unconcious for four days. They wanted to keep him two weeks to get his weight back up and make sure he stayed clean. But Mycroft had bullied and shouted his way into remaining another four days.

'Alright there?' Greg asked, smiling at Anthea.

'Quite,' she answered before looking at Mycroft. 'Sir, you will be moved to your flat in three hours. Joshua will be bringing the car around with your brother and Doctor Watson.'

Mycroft frowned. 'I don't need rest, A. I'm perfectly healthy to go back to work.' Greg snorted and Mycroft looked at him. The DI was leaning against the wall, arms folded. Mycroft asked, 'Something you would like to say, Detective Inspector?'

'You need rest, Mr Holmes,' Greg said. 'John said you do and that should be good enough.'

'I don't care what Doctor Watson has said,' Mycroft sniffed. 'I'm quite alright.'

'Oh yeah?' Greg asked. 'So you normally shake and have a runny nose?'

'Perhaps I'm coming down with a cold.' Greg snorted again. 'That is an irritating noise, Detective Inspector.'

Greg smiled. 'Yes, well. I'll be coming along for the moral support.'

Mycroft frowned at him. 'What makes you think that I'll allow you into my home?'

'Sherlock's letting me in. And you can't say no to Sherlock.'

{oOo}

Mycroft was allowed to dress alone, finally giving him some peace and quiet. He looked around slowly and realised it was the first time he'd been alone since trying to kill himself. It was a little odd; the past four days he had been with either Sherlock, Doctor Watson, DI Lestrade or Anthea.

Mycroft paused by the bed, hands shaking slightly. He ignored it in favour of thinking. He hadn't planned on being alive, hadn't planned on living to the end of the week. He also hadn't planned on Sherlock discovering his drug habit. But everything had gone to hell now.

Depression gripped Mycroft's stomach and he swallowed. He wished he had some cocaine, at least it took away the pain and made life bearable, if only for a few minutes. It was worth the shaking, the detoxing, the health risks.

The politician looked around the room again as he unfolded the clothes Anthea had packed him. He was a little annoyed to find jeans, a shirt, a jumper and jacket. Really, what did Anthea think she was doing? But there was nothing else to wear so Mycroft pulled it all on, sitting to tie up his shoes.

It didn't matter what he wore or what he looked like really. As soon as he got home he'd have a nice glass of scotch, maybe a cigarette, and then... then he'd try again. Because this darkness, this pain, it was too much. Not even Sherlock's anger could stop Mycroft now.

{oOo}

Greg Lestrade puffed on a cigarette outside the hospital, ignoring the sidelong looks he was getting. Yeah, hospital, cigarettes, cancer; he got it. He didn't care though, not at that moment. He was too focused on what he was doing with his day off.

He still felt slightly sick every time he thought about Mycroft Holmes on the floor of his flat. The memory kept replaying in his head; Mycroft seizing, eyes rolling into his head, Greg shouting and calling an ambulance. He'd seen the drugs, the alcohol, the blood on his knees from the glass. But all he'd cared about was saving the elder Holmes, of making sure a brilliant mind wasn't lost prematurely.

Mycroft was far too much like his brother; drug addict, genius, stubborn, liar, fucking stupid, stupid dickhead!

Greg sighed and stubbed out his cigarette. He lit another one, nicotine streaming through his system. He needed to eat something soon or he'd pass out from too many cigarettes. He already had a headache building and hoped Mycroft's car would get there soon.

'May I have one?'

Greg turned and nearly choked. Mycroft Holmes was... Jesus Christ, he was wearing jeans. Though they'd never really spoken before the whole "Mycroft overdosed on fucking purpose"thing, Greg had spied Mycroft at crime scenes and exchanged polite words with him on occasion. The elder Holmes had usually stuck to the edges, out-deducing his brother and generally being a pain in the arse.

Greg had never seen the politician in anything other than very expensive (and very nice) three-piece suits. And there he was, in jeans and a stripy jumper, an expensive and soft looking jacket pulled around his thin frame.

'Detective Inspector?' Mycroft said, raising a well-groomed eyebrow. Anthea (Greg was sure that wasn't her real name, he'd hear her say "Abigail", "Anna", and "Arial" to various males who'd tried asking for her number) was standing behind him, smirking at the blush that was working up Greg's face. Could she blame him? God did Mycroft Holmes have a body.

'Er, is that a good idea?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'I'm perfectly healthy, Detective Inspector,' he repeated for at least the hundredth time since waking from his medically induced coma.

_Yeah, right_, Greg thought. _You're not fooling anyone, mate._ He pulled a cigarette out for Mycroft and handed over his lighter, watching the younger man light his smoke.

'Thank you,' Mycroft murmured and sucked back on the cigarette, blowing a long trail of smoke above his head.

Greg couldn't help but stare at Mycroft's long, pale neck as he shoved his cigarette packet and lighter back into his coat pocket. _Stop it, Greg,_ he chastised himself. _He's a Holmes, he's not right at the moment... save yourself the trouble._

Mycroft turned to look at him and Greg quickly busied himself with his smoke, hoping to hell that Mycroft couldn't see how attracted Greg was to him.

'Surely you have better things to do on your day off than follow me home, Lestrade,' Mycroft said.

Greg shrugged. 'John asked me to come along so I am.'

'Hmm,' Mycroft murmured. 'Has he promised you something in return?'

'No,' Greg said, scowling. 'He's my friend; I do things for my friends free of charge.'

Mycroft's eyes raked over him and Greg shuddered. He hated when Sherlock looked at him like that... it was downright weird when Mycroft did it. Half annoying, half arousing.

'I see,' Mycroft said. 'Interesting.'

Greg really didn't see how it was interesting but chose to let the subject drop.

{oOo}

They smoked in silence, Anthea tapping at her BlackBerry and ignoring them both, until Mycroft's expensive car pulled up. A stocky man with short salt-and-pepper hair stepped from the driver's seat and inclined his head.

'Mr Holmes.'

'Joshua,' Mycroft replied. Joshua opened the door and Mycroft stepped back. 'After you, Detective Inspector.'

Greg stubbed out his cigarette and slid into the car, the leather seats cold to the touch. Sherlock and John were on one side, Sherlock scowling and John smiling warily. They both looked worn out and Greg gave them reassuring smiles as Mycroft slipped into the car.

'Where's your assistant?' Greg asked as the car pulled away. He was very aware that Mycroft was close, only about an inch between them. He swallowed as he waited for the politician's answer.

'She's going to the office to bring me some paperwork,' Mycroft said.

'You're on sick leave,' John pointed out.

Mycroft gave him a condescending smile. 'I'm perfectly healthy.'

Sherlock looked on the verge of shouting again but John stopped him, a hand on his knee. Sherlock cursed and folded his arms, content for the moment to pout. Greg smiled.

{oOo}

Mycroft tried not to let his annoyance show as he stepped into his expensive flat. The living room was large with expensive leather arm chairs and a sofa. There was a large TV with a sound system that Mycroft didn't use and two bookcases either side filled with books Mycroft didn't read. The kitchen table was large and rectangular with six chairs that had never actually been used.

The floorboards were cold under their socked feet ('Shoes off at the door, please.') and Greg slid across to the kitchen to stare at the giant silver fridge. The walls were lined with framed photos of flowers and landscapes; whatever else had come in the frames when Mycroft's assistant purchased them.

'Do you think we could order some pizza or something?' Greg asked, stomach rumbling loudly. Mycroft tutted and Sherlock scowled at him.

'Erm, yeah, might be a good idea,' John said as he joined Greg in the blue-tiled kitchen. 'There's probably no food around here.' He looked at Greg meaningfully and the DI remembered John's words about Mycroft being anorexic.

He turned to watch Mycroft as John pulled out his mobile, no doubt ordering a few pizzas. Mycroft was staring at the new coffee table Anthea had had delivered while he was in hospital. There were no traces of glass or drugs.

'Not that I'm not glad that you three have decided on such an impromptu visit, but I'm going to retire to my bedroom. It's impossible to sleep in a hospital bed.'

Mycroft made for the hallway but Sherlock was suddenly in his way.

'Can I help you, brother?' Mycroft asked, voice edging towards anger.

'You aren't going anywhere until I've searched this entire flat, Mycroft.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Is that so?'

'Yes.'

'And what, pray tell, are you looking for?'

Sherlock scowled. 'Drugs, syringes, alcohol and whatever else you have stashed around here.'

'I assure you I have nothing to hide.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Mycroft, not one of us believes you. So just accept that I'm here and stop being so annoying.'

'I'm not the one standing in your flat searching for drugs.'

'No, but you used to be,' Sherlock said, folding his arms. Greg and John watched from the kitchen archway. 'Mycroft, I...' he swallowed before continuing, 'you helped me get clean. You didn't give up, not even when I threw things and hurled abuse. I'm going to do the same for you whether you like it or not. Because while I may not particularly like you, Mycroft, I do care about you. So deal with it.'

He raised his eyebrows, as though daring his older brother to argue. When Mycroft didn't Sherlock swept down the hallway, leaving the older Holmes with John and Greg.

Mycroft cleared his throat and went to the sofa, ignoring the two other men as best he could. He sat and crossed his legs, fingers twitching in his lap. Finally he had to tuck them under his arms when Greg looked his way.

Though Mycroft appreciated Sherlock's sentiments. it was all just words. When Sherlock thought Mycroft was healthy again he'd leave and go back to Baker Street, back to his life with John and Greg fighting crime. He'd go back to shouting at Mycroft whenever he saw him and ignoring his calls.

Mycroft couldn't go back to that. He couldn't handle it. All he had to do was convince the other three men he was okay. Maybe then they'd leave him alone.

And, hopefully, Mycroft could make it that long without detoxing any further. The shaking was bad enough at the moment... he didn't want them to see him lose it completely.


	5. You Can Follow Me

**Chapter Five: You Can Follow Me, And I Will Not Desert You Now**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>Follow Me by Muse

* * *

><p>'<em>Why do we have to share a room?' Sherlock demanded.<em>

_Sherrinford Holmes scowled down at his son. He was on his fourth glass of bourbon and the amber liquid sloshed around as he spoke._

'_Just do as I say, boy. Ain't enough rooms for you ta have ya own.'_

_Sherlock's glare deepened and he opened his mouth to snap back. Before he could Mycroft grabbed him and Sherlock allowed his brother to drag him into the small room they were sharing._

'_Why do we have to share?' Sherlock demanded, folding his arms and sulking. He flopped onto the bed to glare at the ceiling._

'_Sherlock, Aunt Leanne doesn't have much space, you know that.'_

'_Her kids get their own rooms.'_

_Mycroft sighed. 'Yes, but Cousin Jamie has already moved into Cousin Andrew's for the week. We can't ask two of them to give up their rooms.'_

'_Why not? Jamie and Andrew and Clinton are all so stupid.'_

_Mycroft smiled at his brother. 'I know that but you just have to pretend, Sherlock. Remember I told you about pretending?'_

_The seven-year-old turned to glare at him. 'Mycroft, I'm not stupid. I know how to pretend.'_

I doubt that_, Mycroft thought. Instead he said, 'Come on, Sherlock. Just get changed, brush your teeth, and get into bed. There's no need to upset Daddy.'_

_Sherlock huffed but did as Mycroft asked, changing into his pyjamas and scrubbing his teeth viciously. Jamie's bed was king sized so they had plenty of room once getting under the covers. Regardless, Sherlock tossed and turned, flapping about like a lunatic until settling into his brother's arm._

'_Mycroft?'_

'_Yes, Sherlock?'_

'_Daddy...' he yawned, 'Daddy drinks too much.'_

_Mycroft sighed and brushed Sherlock's hair from his face. 'Yes, I know.'_

'_Don't like it.'_

_Sherlock only ever really opened up when he was about to fall asleep. Mycroft smiled, glad that he got to see this side of his brother._

'_I know, Sherlock.'_

'_Night.'_

'_Goodnight, Sherlock.'_

* * *

><p>Mycroft turned as Sherlock thumped back into the living room, a towel across his arms. He rounded the couch and, frowning at Mycroft, dropped an arm load of things onto the new coffee table.<p>

Mycroft swallowed when he realised Sherlock had found everything. The towel was lined with bottles of mixed cocaine, syringes, packets of the powder, razor blades, and straws.

John sighed and stepped forward to pack it all up, taking care to not touch the razor blades directly. Mycroft's skin was burning now as he watched the clear liquid slosh around the bottles. The packets were calling to him, their insides promising euphoria.

He shifted on the couch and made to move, made to leap up and grab what was his, but he felt a hand on his shoulder and stopped. Mycroft turned to see Greg standing beside him, warm hand on his shoulder.

'Come on, we'll go wait outside for the pizza.'

'I don't want–'

'Let's go,' Greg insisted, hand squeezing tightly. Finally Mycroft nodded and followed Greg from the flat.

They rode the elevator in silence, not looking at each other until they got outside. Greg handed him a cigarette and they both lit their own, blowing smoke above their heads. Greg slouched against the building and puffed on his cigarette, watching people walk past.

'Is there are a reason you dragged me out here?' Mycroft asked.

Greg smiled. 'I didn't drag you, Mr Holmes. You followed me.'

'You insisted.'

'Insisting isn't dragging now is it?'

Mycroft sighed. 'Are you always this annoying?'

'I guess I spend too much time around your brother.'

'Mm,' Mycroft murmured, thinking about how much the DI had helped Sherlock. He'd never thanked him for getting Sherlock clean, for giving him a job, a purpose. He didn't think he could do it now, not with the way things were. Maybe later...

'You realise,' Greg said slowly, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. They were nice fingers, Mycroft thought idly. Long, calloused, tanned... he wondered if they were soft. 'That Sherlock isn't going to leave until you admit you have a problem?'

Mycroft blinked. He'd been staring at Greg's hands far too long and turned away quickly. Why was his heart hammering? And his stomach, it was doing an odd little flip. He shook his head slightly.

'Mr Holmes?'

'Yes, I realise that, Detective Inspector,' Mycroft said, refusing to look at the man. 'But eventually Sherlock will grow bored of babysitting me and leave me alone.'

'I doubt it.'

'And why is that?'

'He cares about you.'

'And?'

Greg tutted. 'Honestly, you Holmeses are so thick sometimes. He's not gonna get bored, Mr Holmes. He loves you, in his own weird way, and he's not going to leave so you can kill yourself.'

'I did _not _try to–'

'Kill yourself, yeah, yeah,' Greg said. He sucked back on his cigarette and spoke again, smoke drifting from his mouth. Mycroft was looking at him again, his head seeming to turn to follow the other man's actions. His lips looked soft too... 'Look, just admit you need help, alright? Sherlock, John, and me aren't going anywhere.'

'Sherlock, John and I,' Mycroft murmured, eyes on Greg's lips.

'S'cuse me?'

'Not Sherlock, John and me. Sherlock, John and _I_.'

'Er, right. That doesn't matter.'

'Good vocabulary matters, Detective.'

Greg rolled his eyes. 'God, were you born with a stick up your arse?'

'Excuse me?'

Greg smiled. 'Just relax for once, Mr Holmes. You're alive, you're sort of healthy, and you have a brother who loves you.'

Mycroft frowned and turned away. He didn't want to be alive, he was far from healthy, and his brother did _not _love him. Why couldn't anybody see that Mycroft would be better off dead?

He sighed and sucked on his smoke, unaware that Greg was watching him closely.

{oOo}

The pizza came and Greg carried it upstairs. They entered the flat to find Sherlock placing bottles of alcohol into a box.

'What do you think you are doing?' Mycroft demanded.

'Keeping an eye on your alcohol,' Sherlock replied, picking the box up. 'I'm not watching you get drunk every day, Mycroft. You can drink if you wish but John and I are monitoring your intake.'

Mycroft's frown increased and he balled his hands into fists. 'I do not need you watching my every move, Sherlock! I've survived forty-four years without you, I don't need you now!'

Sherlock smirked. 'Yes, and look where's it got you. Cocaine addict, alcoholic, anorexic, and you tried to kill yourself.'

'I did not try to kill myself!' Mycroft shouted. 'How many times do I have to tell you?'

'As many times as you want!' Sherlock retorted. 'And each time I believe you less and less!'

The Holmes brothers faced each other off, each scowling and shaking with anger. Finally John had to step between them, pushing Sherlock back.

'Come on, it's been a long day. Let's just eat some pizza and calm down.'

'John's right,' Greg said and stepped to stand beside Mycroft. His warmth assaulted Mycroft's senses, his aftershave invading his nostrils. His stomach did that flip thing again and Mycroft swallowed, shifting away from Greg.

The DI raised an eyebrow and Mycroft murmured, 'I'm not hungry. I'm going to sleep.'

'You should eat, Mycroft,' John tried.

'I'm not hungry,' he muttered again and disappeared to his room.

John sighed. 'We need to make sure he eats something tomorrow.'

'I'll come by and take him to lunch, that's if Sherlock and him haven't murdered each other yet,' Greg said.

John managed a smile and took the pizza from Greg. 'Thank you, Greg. If you hadn't been there...' he trailed off and looked at Sherlock.

'Yes, thank you, Lestrade,' the younger Holmes murmured. He fell onto the couch, arms folded, and flicked on the TV.

Greg and John shared a smile.

{oOo}

Mycroft had a shower before getting into bed, silk pyjamas hugging his slim frame. He pulled the duvet up and settled back, staring at the ceiling. Though he'd shut his bedroom door he could still hear Sherlock, John and Lestrade chatting and laughing. They were unwinding after a long day, enjoying each other's company.

Mycroft wished they'd leave. He had to pretend each and every day that he was happy, that he was normal. Home was the one place he could be himself. He could frown, slouch, mope about and flick through books and magazines. He could get drunk and high and give in to his manic sensations.

They wouldn't let him do that, not now. Mycroft wondered if he would have more freedom on Monday when both John and Lestrade were back at work. He doubted Sherlock could stay awake forever; at some point he'd need to take a break or go out on a case.

And then Mycroft would be left to his own devices.

He frowned when he heard Greg laugh. Again it sent his stomach somersaulting and he couldn't figure out why. Why was the DI making him feel so... out of control, yet safe at the same time? It was very confusing.

Mycroft decided to push it aside and try and get some sleep. He'd need to be refreshed if he was going to act happy and casual tomorrow.

There was a knock on the door and Mycroft paused, wondering who would be disturbing him. He didn't know how people lived together; really, they were so annoying. There was another knock and Mycroft sighed, sitting up.

'Yes?'

The door opened and Sherlock appeared, his tall frame lit up by the hallway light. 'Mycroft?'

'Yes, Sherlock?' His brother paused, biting his lip. 'What is it?'

'Even if you say you're fine, I know you're not,' Sherlock said. 'And no matter how many times you say it I'm going to stay right here and help, okay?'

Mycroft frowned but Sherlock couldn't see it in the dark.

'Goodnight, Mycroft.'

'Goodnight, Sherlock.' Sherlock shut the door, leaving his brother sitting in bed, alone, in his darkened room.


	6. I Don't Care What You Think

**Chapter Six: I Don't Care What You Think**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>I Don't Care by Fall Out Boy

* * *

><p><em>With a long drawn out sigh, Mycroft tipped back his glass of wine. Really, he was an hour late. Usually Mycroft would have left forty-five minutes ago. But for his companion he was willing to make an exception.<em>

_Another twenty minutes passed before Sherlock strolled into the restaurant. He sat down heavily and glared at Mycroft._

'_How are you, brother?'_

'_You kidnapped my flatmate.'_

'_And?'_

'_He left,' Sherlock sniffed._

'_I fail to see your point, Sherlock.'_

_Sherlock huffed angrily, folding his arms like he usually did when he was going to sulk. 'Adam was a good man, Mycroft.'_

_Mycroft tutted. 'Really, Sherlock. He was a boring, pompous git. You are better off without him.'_

'_How would you know what's good for me?'_

'_I always know what's good for you.'_

_Sherlock scowled and turned away, ignoring the glass of wine the waiter had placed before him. Mycroft ran his eyes over his brother, taking in the neat appearance and brushed curls. Sherlock looked healthier than he had in years and Mycroft knew it was thanks to a DI at Scotland Yard. He really had to meet this Greg Lestrade; he'd worked a miracle with Sherlock._

'_I don't appreciate you butting into my life, Mycroft.'_

'_Since when?' Mycroft asked pleasantly._

'_Since always!' Sherlock snapped and stood. 'Just leave me alone, Mycroft.'_

_Mycroft sighed as Sherlock stormed from the restaurant. He ordered another glass of wine as he sipped Sherlock's, mulling over his brother's words. It had been years since Sherlock had taken Mycroft's help willingly. The last time had been when he was detoxing._

_Mycroft missed their bond, their chats, the experiments they did when they were young. More than once they had blown up a part of the house and received a thrashing from Father._

_He drained his glass in three gulps and waited for the next, a familiar buzz already wrapping around his brain. He didn't fancy food today, not if Sherlock wasn't there. Only his brother ever commented on his lack of eating, usually with sharp jabs about Mycroft gaining weight._

_Mycroft frowned at the table, blackness clawing at his stomach. He missed a time when he and Sherlock could enjoy lunch together. He sighed._

_That time had passed long ago._

* * *

><p>Mycroft was awake by six, a headache thumping through his head. His skin tingled and itched and he scratched at his inner elbows through his silk shirt. Really, did Sherlock have to take <em>all <em>of his cocaine? Why couldn't he have left just a little bit?

He dressed in trousers and a silk shirt, deciding to leave off the tie and waistcoat. At least he could be comfortable in his own flat.

Nobody else was awake, Sherlock and John having retired to the guest room around midnight. Mycroft looked around a bit for the box of alcohol Sherlock had had but it seemed his younger brother had taken it to his room. Mycroft cursed and sat on the couch, flicking on the TV.

Really, what was he supposed to do with his day? He needed to work, to keep his mind active, otherwise he'd fall prey to either depression or a hypomanic episode. He wasn't sure which he'd prefer.

John got up around ten to find Mycroft angrily stabbing at the remote, glaring at the TV as though it was the cause of all his problems.

'Morning,' John yawned, shuffling onto the kitchen to make coffee.

'Good morning, Dr Watson,' Mycroft replied tersely.

'Would you like some tea or coffee?' John asked, working the expensive and rarely used coffee machine like an expert. 'Or toast?'

'I don't have any bread.'

'I called your assistant. She's bringing over some shopping.'

'Why?'

'Because human's need to eat.'

'Humans are dull.' John rolled his eyes and Mycroft said, 'I suppose coffee would be acceptable, John. Black, two sugars.'

They lapsed into silence as John made the drinks. He placed Mycroft's on the coffee table and the elder Holmes waited for it to cool before sipping from the mug.

'What, exactly, am I supposed to do with my day?' Mycroft asked as John flicked on the news.

'Relax,' John said.

'Relaxing is dull.'

'You sound like Sherlock.'

'Please, John, no need to resort to such slander.'

John chuckled. 'From me it's not slander, Mycroft. I love Sherlock, remember?'

'Mm,' Mycroft murmured over his cup.

There was a knock on the door and John stood to answer it. Mycroft scowled as A entered carrying bags of groceries. She and John chatted like old friends as they packed it all away, Mycroft sulking on the couch.

'Sir, I brought over some paperwork,' A said and handed her boss a few thick files. 'I believe a few cases won't damage your health.'

'I am fine,' Mycroft muttered but took the files anyway. He stood and disappeared into his study, shutting the door with a click.

John sighed. 'He's not going to make this easy, is he?'

'No,' A said. 'But thank you for trying, Dr Watson. I've always feared for his health but he's rather secretive and a very good liar.'

'Yeah, but I have a way with the Holmes brothers,' John smiled. 'I'll fix him.'

A smiled. 'Thank you, Dr Watson.'

'No worries, Anthea.'

{oOo}

The tap on the door broke Mycroft from his thoughts. He'd been running through a few different plans, all highly dangerous with only small chances of mass failure. He flipped the file shut and pushed it aside.

'Yes?'

Greg Lestrade entered looking tired and hungry. 'Hello, Mr Holmes.'

'Detective Inspector,' Mycroft nodded. 'To what do I owe the... pleasure?'

Greg chuckled. 'I'm here to take you to lunch.'

'Why?'

'People need food.'

'I assure you I am not hungry.'

'And I assure you that Sherlock will drag you out by your hair if you don't eat something today.'

Mycroft paused to think that through. While Sherlock himself barely ate he still consumed more food than Mycroft. And Sherlock _was _acting strangely protective lately. Mycroft didn't doubt that Sherlock would use his full strength to force feed him. And while Mycroft was stronger than he looked, he still wasn't as healthy as he could be. Sherlock would win.

'There is nothing I can say to avoid lunch?' Mycroft asked.

Greg shook his head, arms folded. 'Nope.'

Mycroft sighed. 'Very well, Detective, let us go. Please note that I am doing this against my will.'

'I know but I don't care.'

Mycroft frowned as he locked his files away, following Greg from the study.

{oOo}

Mycroft tried to keep scowling as he and Greg sat down at a nearby sandwich shop. Greg ordered for both of them and the politician glared at his ham sandwich and salad, a can of coke on the side.

'We're not leaving 'til you eat,' Greg informed him, munching on his own steak sandwich. Sauce dripped down his chin and Mycroft gulped as the DI sucked his finger, cleaning his chin and leaving a trail of saliva before his shirt wiped it away.

'Huh?' Mycroft said, looking up. He cleared his throat and tried to sound more... normal. 'Pardon?'

'I said we're not leaving until you eat all your food,' Greg said.

Mycroft tutted. 'I am not a child, Detective.'

'Then stop acting like one.' Mycroft frowned at him. 'Look, you claim you're okay, right? Well if you were you'd eat.'

Mycroft frowned. Reverse psychology... damn it, it was working.

'Fine,' Mycroft huffed and picked up half of the sandwich. He bit into it delicately and chewed softly, glaring at Greg the entire time. The police officer just grinned and continued devouring his own food.

Mycroft found his concentration wandering every few minutes. Really, did Greg _have _to eat so sloppily? Did he have to continuously lick sauce from his lips? And who ate chips like that?

'Is something wrong?' Greg asked, sucking half the potato between his lips.

Mycroft shook his head and tried to concentrate on stuffing his mouth full of salad. 'Fine,' he mumbled through a mouthful, sipping his coke to clear his throat. 'I'm just thinking.'

'About?'

'Work.'

'And?' Greg prompted.

'It's classified.'

'I wasn't asking for details, Mr Holmes,' Greg said and leaned back, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. Mycroft's eyes ran along the DI's broad chest, noting the way his shirt clung to his middle. 'If you want to talk I'm here.'

Mycroft paused for a second before saying, 'I'm working on a particularly difficult case.'

'Oh?'

'A plan is needed and I'm not sure I have the correct solution.'

'Hmm,' Greg murmured, downing the rest of his coke and standing. He fished for some coins and came back with another can. 'Well, I'm sure whatever you come up with will work.'

'You cannot possibly know that.'

'I've worked with Sherlock long enough to know that you Holmeses solve everything eventually.' He smiled and Mycroft felt blood rush to his face. What the bloody hell was going on? 'Mr Holmes, you just have to relax. Sit back in your seat, breathe, have a smoke... it'll come to you, I guarantee it.'

Mycroft snorted. 'Your solution is for me to relax?'

'Yes.'

'And when it fails I will take great delight in torturing you endlessly.'

Greg shrugged. 'I'm used to it.'

Mycroft nodded along. 'I am sorry my brother is so...'

'Annoying?' Greg said.

The politician found himself smiling; a genuine smile that pulled at his muscles effortlessly, like he was used to smiling all the time. 'Yes, he is rather annoying.'

Greg chuckled. 'God, that's putting it lightly. Don't get me wrong, I love him, he's a good mate. But he's just so...'

'Annoying?'

Greg laughed loudly, a kind of light chuckle that made Mycroft's skin tingle. He liked that noise; he wanted to hear it again.

'Yeah, yeah, he's an annoying sod.'

Mycroft smiled.

They fell into a comfortable atmosphere, chatting like good friends and sharing jokes. Mycroft got caught up in the new emotions thundering through his system. He was genuinely happy. He was enjoying sitting and laughing with the older man.

It was a new feeling; Mycroft wasn't used to being happy. He only ever felt content when taking care of Sherlock or solving a particularly difficult problem at work. But right then, sitting with Greg, Mycroft was... bloody hell, he was happy.

It reached two before Greg swore and said, 'I gotta get back to work.'

'Oh,' Mycroft said, realising he and Greg had been talking for two hours. 'I apologise, Detective.'

'No worries,' Greg smiled and stood. He paid, much to Mycroft's annoyance, and one of the politician's cars took them back to Mycroft's flat.

'I insist you allow my driver to take you back to Scotland Yard,' Mycroft said. 'As thanks for lunch.'

'A private car, eh?' Greg smiled. 'I could get used to it.'

Mycroft smiled. 'Thank you, Detective Inspector.'

'Please, call me Greg,' Greg said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and he said, 'Er, I guess you can call me Gregory?'

'Very well... Gregory,' Mycroft said.

Greg smiled. 'Have a good evening, Mr Holmes.'

'I hardly think you should call me Mr Holmes,' Mycroft said as Greg climbed into the car. The DI looked up at him, hand on the door. 'It only seems polite for you to call me by my given name.'

Greg paused for a minute before smiling broadly, making Mycroft's heart flutter. 'Okay, Mycroft. Have a good afternoon.'

'You too, Gregory.'

Mycroft shut the door and stood on the sidewalk, watching his car disappear into traffic.

{oOo}

Mycroft effectively ignored Sherlock and John for the remainder of the day, locking himself in his study. He flipped through the file again and sighed. His brain felt like moosh and wouldn't listen to a damn thing he wanted.

He'd been going over that one file for the better part of three hours and was seriously close to throwing the damn thing across the room.

Mycroft paused, elbows on his desk, as Greg's words drifted through his head.

_Lean back. Breathe. Have a smoke..._

_Relax._

Mycroft frowned. A fat lot of good that would do. He glanced at his BlackBerry and sighed. He wanted this problem gone; it was hurting his head.

_Okay, fine,_ he thought. _I'll do it his way._

Mycroft kicked his shoes off and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his desk. He lit one and took a drag as he reclined in his seat, stretching his arms and legs. He regulated his breathing in-between drags of his cigarette, closing his eyes and just letting go.

The perfect solution raced through Mycroft's brain suddenly and he sat up. Grabbing his BlackBerry, he texted A the plan and told her to put it into immediate action. He stubbed out his cigarette and waited.

Two hours later, after ignoring John's pleas for him to have some dinner, Mycroft got a call from his assistant.

'_Your plan worked perfectly, sir. No casualties. Mission successful._'

'Thank you,' Mycroft said and hung up. He paused and, after hesitating for a few seconds, Mycroft sent a new text.

_It seems you were correct in assuming that relaxation would help me focus. You have my thanks– MH_

He sent it through to Gregory Lestrade, having had the man in his phonebook since Sherlock's first stabbing while working for Scotland Yard. Mycroft lit another smoke and smirked when John started pounding on the door.

'Mycroft, come on!' the doctor shouted. 'Just some rice!'

'I had a big lunch!' Mycroft called.

John swore loudly and stormed away. Mycroft's BlackBerry pinged.

**Should I be worried you have my number?**

Mycroft smiled.

_Gregory, whatever could I do with your number?– MH_

The reply was almost instantaneous and, not for the first time that day, Mycroft's stomach twisted weirdly.

**I dunno... give it to a terrorist?**

Mycroft chuckled.

_I do not know any terrorists, Gregory. Well, not any terrorists who are still alive– MH_

He reclined in his seat again, socked feet pushing through the lush carpet. He really did feel quite relaxed and blew smoke above his head, ashing in his glass ashtray.

**That's fairly disturbing. So I was right?**

Mycroft tapped at his BlackBerry with one hand.

_I did not say that. I merely expressed my thanks for receiving your advice– MH_

Greg's reply was all in capitals and made Mycroft raise an eyebrow.

**NO, I WAS RIGHT! I TOLD YOU ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS RELAX! YES! LESTRADE: 1. HOLMES: 0.**

Mycroft felt a giggle escape his lips and cleared his throat afterwards, embarrassed he was even capable of making such a noise.

_Very well, Gregory, I concede. Yes, you were right. Bravo– MH_

Mycroft found that he didn't really mind saying Greg was right. He did feel better, the incident was taken care of, and nobody had been killed. Really it was an okay day by Mycroft Holmes' standards.

**I'm never letting you live it down, Mycroft. I win! :p**

It took Mycroft a minute to figure out what the last two characters were supposed to represent.

_You are childish– MH_

**No, I am RIGHT!**

_Let it go, Gregory– MH_

**Never.**

_Childish– MH_

**Right**_._

Mycroft chuckled.

'What are you grinning about?'

Mycroft nearly dropped his cigarette and actually dropped his BlackBerry. He picked it up quickly as Sherlock crossed the study, arms folded. The younger Holmes was far too good at picking locks.

'I'm not grinning,' Mycroft said and pressed his lips together.

'You are,' Sherlock said, eyes roaming Mycroft's face. 'You look... happy.'

'Because I am.'

'Why?'

'Do I need a reason?'

'Yes.' Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock said, 'John is requesting you have dinner with us.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'You had one sandwich for lunch.'

Mycroft sighed. 'And salad, Sherlock, as well as a rather unhealthy can of Coca Cola. Is that not enough?'

'You've had one sandwich, a small side salad, and half a can of coke in... four days. No, that is not enough.' His arms dropped to his side and he said, 'Do I need to drag you out into the kitchen?'

Mycroft scowled. 'I'm busy, Sherlock.'

'No you're not.'

'I am.'

'Not.'

Mycroft sighed. 'If I promise to have a small plate of rice will you leave me alone?'

'Yes,' Sherlock said before pausing, once again fixing his piercing gaze on his elder brother. 'Who are you texting?'

'I'm afraid you don't have the clearance to know that information, Sherlock,' Mycroft said. He really, _really _didn't want Sherlock to know that he'd been texting Gregory Lestrade. He'd thanked him for God's sake! Sherlock's teasing would be endless.

Mycroft's BlackBerry beeped again, signalling a new text. He glared at Sherlock, who huffed.

'Fine, I will leave. But one plate of rice, Mycroft.'

'Yes, Mother.'

Mycroft didn't look at his BlackBerry until the door had shut behind Sherlock.

**Don't worry, I won't tell Sherlock or John that I was right. Wouldn't want to ruin your street cred.**

Mycroft smiled.

_My street cred?– MH_

**You like to look dangerous and powerful, Mycroft. You are, don't get me wrong, but Sherlock would tease you if he knew you'd taken my advice, right?**

_You are correct– MH_

**Right. So I won't tell him.**

Mycroft smiled at his phone.

_Thank you– MH_

**Ha, you said thank you again. Lestrade: 2. Holmes: 0.**

Mycroft chuckled and placed his BlackBerry in his pocket. He tapped his fingers along the desk as he finished his cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray. Mycroft paused when he realised he was feeling... strange.

He didn't feel angry... or irritated or anxious or tired. He actually felt rather calm and... happy?

Mycroft frowned, puzzled. Usually he only felt happy when he was high. He enjoyed work, sometimes, and liked to see Sherlock happy. But Mycroft rarely enjoyed anything if he wasn't high or having a hypomanic episode. What on Earth was happening to him? Why did he want to whistle and smile and actually eat?

It took Mycroft far too long to figure out why he was happy.

And when he did he gasped.

Oh dear Lord.

He was attracted to Gregory Lestrade.


	7. I'm On Fire

**Chapter Seven: I'm On Fire**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light 'Em Up) by Fall Out Boy

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock had disappeared and Mycroft was growing frantic. Honestly, what the hell did he pay his men for? He fired all of them, hired new ones, and fired them too when they failed to find his brother.<em>

_Finally, after an agonising three weeks, Sherlock turned up in Milan. He and John seemed fine and Mycroft leaned back in his office chair, staring at the surveillance footage. Sherlock was acting weird, different. He seemed ruffled every time John looked his way and kept swallowing, stumbling over his words. It took Mycroft seconds to figure out what was happening._

_Sherlock was in love... with Dr John Watson._

Interesting, _Mycroft mused, watching as John handed his brother a mug of tea. Sherlock thanked him, eyes watching the doctor as he sat and pulled out his laptop. _Sherlock is actually in love.

_He pondered over that as he poured himself a glass of scotch to relax. He very much wanted to go and yell at Sherlock for disappearing like that. But his brother was occupied, busy trying to figure out his feelings and deal with his attraction to John. Mycroft didn't want to fluster Sherlock any more._

_Mycroft had never known his brother to feel romantically towards another person. Sexually, yes, but never with deep emotional attachment. Mycroft tilted his head, taking a drink of scotch as he watched Sherlock and John chat._

Very interesting_, he mused._

* * *

><p>Mycroft didn't like that this attraction had sneaked up on him so successfully. He'd always been exclusively attracted to men but had never felt strongly for anyone. He knew he wouldn't make a good partner and really, really didn't need someone in his life. He only dabbled in sex during his hypomanic episodes when he was fuelled by drugs and alcohol. To be attracted to someone while sober was strange.<p>

Thankfully Greg Lestrade was swamped with work, leaving Mycroft plenty of time to deal with hiding his attraction.

Sherlock, John, A and a number of guards took turns watching Mycroft over the course of the week, much to Mycroft's annoyance. He was only alone when he took bathroom breaks and went to sleep. Every hour of every day he was watched by his brother, brother-in-law, assistant or some nameless guard who nodded and called him, 'Mr Holmes.'

Mycroft's tremors were getting worse, his depression eating at his brain as he sat staring at file upon file of dangerous material. He took to cracking his knuckles, running his fingers through his hair and chewing on his bottom lip until it bled.

Sherlock noticed and smirked, glad that his brother was detoxing. John smiled warmly, A just stared and Mycroft scowled.

The headaches began on Thursday, reducing Mycroft to a groaning mess. He stayed in bed, rubbing at his eyes and trying to drink the water John brought him. The doctor had had the day off after discovering Mycroft whimpering in the corner of his room, clawing at his arms until old track marks became bloody wounds.

John gave him a few Nurofen and, finally, Mycroft found peace. But it was peace tinged with anger and hurt; the anger and hurt Mycroft always felt bubbling beneath the surface.

He clawed at his face, burying himself under his duvet. He wanted just one second of mind-numbing nothingness. But no, Sherlock had taken away his drugs and alcohol. Curse that stupid brother of his.

Mycroft's BlackBerry buzzed and he paused, staring at where it sat on his desk. Who could possibly be calling him? A had informed his superiors he was on sick leave indefinitely and they were, under no circumstances, to contact Mycroft Holmes. So who...?

Mycroft crawled across his large bed and grabbed the phone, peering at the screen. _Gregory Lestrade. _Mycroft frowned when his stomach jumped.

Still frowning, he clicked the green button and murmured, 'Yes?'

'_Mycroft, how are you_?'

'Fine.'

'_Oh really?_' Greg scoffed. '_Do you consider fine to be lying about in bed all day, scratching at your arms and moaning_?'

'Yes, I do,' Mycroft said. 'Who told you?'

'_John._'

'Of course.'

'_He's just worried._'

'There is nothing to worry about.' Greg snorted, his go-to noise when Mycroft was lying. 'I assure you I am fine, Gregory. You do not need to check up on me.'

It was strange, really, to be getting a call from DI Lestrade. They'd only know each other two weeks... damn this bloody attraction.

'_Anyway,_' Greg said, breaking Mycroft from his thoughts. '_I'm off in twenty minutes and was wondering if you'd like to have dinner. John told me you haven't eaten and I really don't want Sherlock abusing me at work. He's far too annoying lately._'

Mycroft really wasn't hungry; he'd eaten lunch four days ago, hadn't he? And he'd had a whole plate of rice.

But Sherlock had started shouting the previous night when Mycroft had gone to bed without supper. And John had taken to following him around with bowls of food. Perhaps a little dinner would be okay... his headache was gone _and _he'd have a chance to look at Greg.

Dear God, he wanted to perv on the man. Mycroft frowned, rubbing his eyes. Really, what was the world coming to? Since when did he, Mycroft Holmes, go to dinner just to enjoy the company of another man?

'_Mycroft_?'

'Erm, yes, I suppose that would be acceptable,' Mycroft said. 'I wouldn't want Sherlock annoying you all day, after all.'

Greg chuckled. '_Mm. I'll see you in an hour, Mycroft. And I'm paying._'

He hung up before Mycroft could argue.

{oOo}

Mycroft dressed in his usual attire; slim fitting three piece suit, umbrella clasped in one hand. He gripped it tightly to stop the shaking that had started up again, taking another two Nurofen to combat the migraine threatening to overtake.

He brushed back his hair as he stepped out of his room, finding Sherlock and John on the couch watching Doctor Who.

'Where are you off to?' John asked, voice calm and pleasant. Sherlock scowled as he looked his brother up and down, no doubt expecting Mycroft to be heading out to buy cocaine. If he could get away he would.

'I have dinner plans with Gregory.'

'Gregory?' Sherlock questioned.

'Yes, that is Detective Inspector Lestrade's first name,' Mycroft said, straightening his tie. 'He asked that I call him Gregory.'

'Interesting,' Sherlock murmured. 'I didn't realise you and he were dating.'

For the first time in Mycroft's life he blushed. It was bad enough that he was attracted to the man but now Sherlock thought they were dating? Good Lord, just kill him now.

'It is not a date, Sherlock,' Mycroft scowled. 'We are simply having dinner as you seem to want me to eat all the time.'

'Eating is important,' John said, doctor-voice coming out.

Mycroft sighed. 'And yet Sherlock only eats occasionally. Why is it okay for him and not me?'

'I eat every day when I don't have a case, Mycroft,' Sherlock said, 'you don't eat until you collapse from lack of food.'

'That is not true.'

'It is.'

Mycroft opened his mouth but John cut him off. 'For God's sake, don't start bickering.' He frowned at Sherlock, who huffed and looked at the TV. John turned to Mycroft. 'I'm glad you're eating, Mycroft. Well done.'

He sounded like he was congratulating a puppy who'd learned a new trick. Mycroft gave John his best scowl as he waited for Gregory, checking his pocket watch every few minutes.

An hour and ten minutes after calling, Greg knocked on the door. He smiled at Mycroft and said, 'How are you?'

'You are ten minutes late,' Mycroft said. Normally he wouldn't mind (well, he wouldn't say anything aloud) but the lack of cocaine, of alcohol, of cutting had robbed him of whatever manners he had.

It didn't help that Greg somehow looked gorgeous after a tough day of chasing criminals and signing paperwork. Mycroft swallowed, trying to ignore the stubble that littered Greg's face. Is this what all people who had a crush felt like? Their insides squirming, mouth dry, palms sweaty? If it was Mycroft didn't like it; he didn't like that his body seemed to change based on how close Gregory Lestrade was. It was frustrating.

'Er... sorry?' Greg managed, giving Mycroft a very charming smile.

Mycroft swallowed, trying to clear his head. 'Yes, well... let us go.'

He swept from the flat before Sherlock could notice his state.

{oOo}

Greg glanced at Mycroft every few seconds as they were driven to the restaurant. The man looked unwell, more so then the last time Greg had seen him. His face was flushed, hands twitching, and he kept licking and biting his lips.

Greg wondered if it was just the detoxing; Mycroft had now gone a few days without alcohol or cocaine. It was amazing the man was functioning at all.

He couldn't help but notice how delicious the politician looked in his three-piece suits, hair brushed back and hands tapping rhythmically against his thighs. God what Greg would give to touch those thighs–

The DI swallowed, turning away. He couldn't let this attraction get out of hand. Yes, Mycroft was hot, but so what? Plenty of people were hot; Sherlock was good-looking, that didn't mean that Greg had to go and get all dreamy-eyed around him.

But the man was... God, was Mycroft Holmes something else. He was powerful, dangerous, and even more brilliant than Sherlock. But he was damaged, sick, depressed, a fucking drug addict and possible alcoholic.

It didn't matter if Mycroft looked good... really good... really, _really _good. So what if his hair was so perfect and neat all the time? Was it so wrong for Greg to want to pull and tug it out of shape? His eyes were the nicest blue, pale yet warm and mysterious. He was slim, both in weight and body structure, and his lips looked so soft and–

_What did I say about letting it get out hand_? Greg frowned, berating himself. He had to stop thinking about Mycroft as more than a friend. For Christ's sake, he'd known the man for little over a week. Okay, yeah, he'd known _of _him for over six years. But other than glances and nods, they didn't really know each other.

That didn't stop Greg from wanting to fuck the man as hard as he goddamn could.

Jesus Christ was he in trouble.

{oOo}

They sat across from each other awkwardly, Greg scanning the menu as something to do. Mycroft fiddled with his napkin, eyes down and heart beating painfully. He didn't quite understand what it was about DI Lestrade that made him so attractive.

Okay, yes, he was handsome; broad-shoulders, spiky grey hair, dark brown eyes, cheeky grin that lit up his entire face. Okay, so maybe he was sexy... he really had a fantastic body. He was intelligent, brave, knew how to handle himself both physically and mentally. He was a good friend, good man; he was going out of his way to help Mycroft despite barely knowing him...

God, Mycroft actually liked the man. What... he didn't understand. He'd never liked anyone before. He loved Sherlock, he didn't mind Dr Watson... but Greg, really? This simple man who enjoyed beer and football was so captivating, so interesting. He actually made Mycroft feel... normal.

It was strange and not entirely comfortable. Mycroft wasn't used to liking people. Usually everything was so dark and black and goddamn awful. But hadn't he enjoyed himself with Greg at lunch the other day? Hadn't he actually laughed and smiled for the first time in years, simply because the DI had texted him?

'Are you okay?'

Mycroft blinked, looking up. 'Pardon?'

'Are you okay?' Greg repeated. 'You seem... out of it.'

'I am quite alright,' Mycroft said, clearing his throat. He was getting sick of people asking if he was okay. Why wouldn't they believe him? If they did they'd leave him alone. He could drink and smoke and shoot up as much fucking cocaine as he wanted. He sighed to himself, wishing he could inject that sweet liquid into his veins. God did his body hurt.

'Mycroft, you can talk to me, remember? I'm not family so... you know, there's no need to continue lying.'

Mycroft frowned, suddenly angry. Who the hell was Greg to waltz into his life? The man had been nothing but trouble. First he'd saved him, then mocked him at the hospital, and now he was dragging him around and forcing him to eat. And Jesus Christ he looked fucking fabulous doing it.

'I don't need to talk about anything!' Mycroft hissed, blood roaring in his ears. Had it always been this hot? Why was he sweating?

Greg frowned, putting down his menu. 'Mycroft, are you–'

'Don't!' Mycroft snapped, pulling at his shirt. He didn't need to hear it; didn't need to hear or see the pity. He was fine, he'd always been fine. He didn't need anybody helping him!

'Mycroft, what is it?'

His skin was itching and burning, veins starving for cocaine. Mycroft pulled at his jacket, rumpling the expensive fabric but not caring in the least. He needed something, anything. A drink, some drugs, even a knife. Just something to make the thoughts and heat and itching go away.

Mycroft was suddenly on his feet and Greg stood too, though at a much more human pace.

'Mycroft, sit down.'

'No.'

'Come on, just sit.'

Mycroft shook his head and began backing away. His umbrella was still beside his chair but he didn't care. Why was everything going wrong? Why did it feel wrong? There was a buzzing in Mycroft's ear and he froze.

Oh. He knew this feeling very well...


	8. Let The Good Times Roll

**Chapter Eight: Let The Good Times Roll**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>Thnks Fr Th Mmrs by Fall Out Boy

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft was floating on top of the world. Everything was just so perfect, so right. His brain was humming along quite nicely and not even Sherlock's incessant knocking could annoy him. Really, now was the perfect time to watch TV, or read, or even...<em>

_Mycroft swallowed as images of the last guy he was with floated through his brain. Oh, it had been so glorious; alcohol and cocaine and the need to fill each other. He ignored the memories of waking up sore and confused, head thumping painfully and skin aching. No, how could pain hurt him now?_

_The door opened and Mycroft hummed as he stood. Sherlock was coming into puberty now and it had made him even more sullen and withdrawn. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they roamed over his brother._

'_What's wrong with you?'_

'_Nothing, dear brother,' Mycroft smiled. 'Just enjoying life.'_

'_Since when?'_

_Mycroft chuckled. 'Sherlock, I must go.'_

'_What? Where?'_

'_Out,' Mycroft said, shrugging into his jacket and coat. He buttoned it up, wondering what man would be undoing it tonight. There would be a man, of course. Mycroft liked men; he liked the way they touched him, bought him drinks, commented on his blue eyes and soft skin. He particularly liked them slightly older; late thirties to his early twenties._

'_Mycroft, you're acting weird.'_

'_Nonsense,' Mycroft said, grinning from ear to ear. It was a manic grin, a crazy one, and Sherlock stepped back. 'Sherlock, stop acting so... boring,' Mycroft tutted. 'Life is to be enjoyed, brother.'_

'_Mycroft–'_

'_Shut up!' Mycroft shouted, anger spearing through his head. 'Why are you intent on ruining my mood?'_

_Sherlock's eyes had grown even wider, bright blue orbs that sucked at Mycroft's heart._

'_Just... leave me alone,' Mycroft scowled, angry that his mood was shifting, pulling him down. No, he had to enjoy this while he could; his manic periods went far too quickly._

_He swept from the room before Sherlock could say anything, leaving his little brother standing alone in the room he had occupied as a child._

'_Mycroft... what...' Sherlock folded his arms, chin on his chest. He didn't understand._

_And not understanding scared him._

* * *

><p>Suddenly energy seemed to engulf his entire frame and Mycroft smiled slightly. He was having a hypomanic episode. Beautiful. His brain sped up, thoughts merging together until everything was suddenly very, very clear. He was filled with a fierce and tingling energy that felt absolutely amazing on his heated skin.<p>

'Mycroft?'

Mycroft wasn't listening anymore. Before Greg could say anything else he hurried from the restaurant, bursting onto the rain-soaked street. Even the rain felt like heaven and he smiled up at it, feeling truly alive for the first time in months. His last manic episode had been so long ago and gone far too quickly.

'Mycroft!'

The politician walked quickly, trying to put some distance between himself and Greg. He had money on him, he could go find a pub and an alley, get some sweet tasting liquid and even sweeter powder. God, that would make everything so much better; the euphoria would last longer.

'MYCROFT!'

He ignored Greg, annoyed that the DI was still following him. Honestly, didn't the man have anything better to do? He slipped sideways into a small store, ignoring the bustling people about. He peered through the crowd to see Greg hurry past, phone pressed to his ear. Mycroft grinned. Attraction was nothing compared to this feeling; Gregory was nothing compared to this feeling.

Mycroft hurried from the store, pulling up his mental map of London to find the nearest pub.

{oOo}

'I've found him,' A announced to the group. They were standing in Mycroft's living room. Well everyone apart from Sherlock. The younger Holmes had dashed out as soon as Greg had called, cursing loudly and angrily.

John immediately pulled out his phone but A shook her head.

'I've already given Sherlock Mr Holmes' whereabouts.'

'God,' Greg groaned and fell to sit on the couch. He felt something press against his shoulder and looked up to see a beer in John's hands. He thanked the doctor and sucked half down, rubbing his lips. 'You should have seen him, John. He looked so... out of control and happy. But crazy too; like he was going to do something stupid.'

John nodded along, leaning against the couch and sipping his own drink. He had his thoughts on Mycroft's condition but decided to keep them to himself until Sherlock could tell him more.

Greg sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He was tired, hungry, and fucking worried. Was it weird to feel so worried about a man he barely knew? Greg frowned, staring at the TV but not paying attention. He'd felt this way before about people; he'd been in love before. But it had never happened this quickly. Usually it took weeks, months for him to ache to see a man's face or smell his cologne.

But pretty much four hours after having a proper conversation with Mycroft, Greg had burned for him. It was absolutely maddening and exhilarating at the same time.

'You alright?' John asked.

Greg opened his mouth to voice his thoughts, his feelings, only to hear the front door bang open. He turned to see Sherlock carrying his brother, the elder Holmes draped over his shoulders.

'What happened?' Greg demanded, standing as Sherlock carried his brother over.

'He's drunk,' Sherlock growled, dropping Mycroft's jacket and waistcoat on the floor. Mycroft's sleeves were rolled up and Greg and John were relieved to see there were no fresh track marks.

'Shit,' Greg groaned. 'This is all my fault.'

'No it's not,' John tried.

'I should have stopped him,' Greg said. 'Fuck, I just let him walk right out and get hammered.'

Mycroft had managed to straighten slightly and grinned at them, eyes wobbling and hazy. He attempted to speak but only managed a soft moan before he drooped again. Greg stepped forward and took half his weight, helping Sherlock drag the politician to his room.

They laid him down and John checked him over carefully as Greg removed Mycroft's shoes.

'Is he okay?' the DI asked.

'Has he overdosed?' Sherlock demanded.

John was silent for a minute, checking Mycroft over carefully. 'I don't think so,' he finally said.

'What do you mean?' Sherlock snarled.

John sighed. 'Sherlock, calm down, alright? He's obviously completely hammered but I don't know if he's got alcohol poisoning or not.'

'Shouldn't we call an ambulance?' Greg asked.

John shook his head. 'No, I think he'll be fine. I just need to keep an eye on him and make sure he hasn't poisoned himself again.'

Greg sagged against the wall, taking deep breaths to calm himself. John grabbed his arm and gave him a smile before saying, 'Get something to eat, Greg, and have another beer. Doctor's orders, alright?'

Greg nodded and John turned to his husband.

'You too.'

'I'm not leaving.'

'Sherlock, please.' Sherlock shook his head. 'I know you care, love,' John said, stepping forward to hug his partner, 'but you can't help me right now. You found Mycroft and he's safe, that's all that matters. Just go relax, try to calm down, alright? Plus I want to check for hidden track marks and make sure he hasn't taken anything else. It'll go better if you're not here.'

Finally Sherlock nodded and rushed from the room, coat flapping dramatically. Greg sighed and, taking one last look at Mycroft, left the room.


	9. My Childhood

**Chapter Nine: My Childhood Spat Back Out The Monster That You See**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light 'Em Up) by Fall Out Boy

* * *

><p>'<em>What do you think is wrong with them?'<em>

_Mycroft and Sherlock shifted on the grass, looking at each other every few seconds. Mummy and Daddy were talking to yet another doctor about their sons; about Mycroft's quietness and Sherlock's manic moods._

'_Well, it's hard to say,' the doctor murmured, voices barely audible to the two boys crouching beneath the window. 'I fear your eldest, Mycroft, may suffer from depression. But it is difficult; he is an extremely good liar.'_

_Mycroft felt a small pang of pride at himself. He did love manipulating people._

'_He answered all my questions perfectly.'_

'_Doesn't that point to him being okay?' Mummy asked._

'_No, he answered them _too _perfectly. I fear he's hiding his true emotions, if he has any at all. He wasn't honestly pleased or upset by anything I said.'_

'_He cares for Sherlock,' Mummy said, quickly jumping to her son's defence._

'_I don't doubt that but he is over-protective; obsessively so. He definitely has obsessive compulsive disorder. If you want a proper diagnosis you'll have to give me more time.'_

_There was silence then and Mycroft looked at Sherlock. His little brother poked his tongue out, no doubt thrilled that there was something wrong with Mycroft. Mycroft rolled his eyes._

'_What about Sherlock?' Daddy asked._

'_He is almost the opposite to Mycroft in his moods,' the doctor– Mycroft hadn't bothered remembering her name, preferring to delete it like all the others– said. 'He is very energetic when things amuse him but he grows bored easily. He has no understanding of social normalities and cares little about other people. I am comfortable saying he has a personality disorder.'_

_Sherlock stiffened and Mycroft looked him over. Though Sherlock appeared fine his eyes were down-cast, his little body tensed. Sherlock hated when people teased him, absolutely hated it. It made him withdraw into himself._

'_But again, unless I am allowed to observe him more I will not be able to give you a proper diagnosis.'_

_More silence and Sherlock scraped a finger through the grass, pale hand clenching. Mycroft longed to soothe him but any words would be heard by the adults. Mycroft knew this had been a bad idea; spying on Mummy and Daddy always was. But Sherlock had been so insistent._

'_Thank you for your time, Dr Leonard, but I think you should leave.'_

_The doctor choked on whatever she was drinking. 'Mrs Holmes, I am only trying to help.'_

'_My boys are fine, Doctor,' Mummy continued. 'Please, Mr Roberts will show you out.' There was __movement followed by a door shutting and a sigh._

'_Camille, the boys need help,' Daddy said._

'_They are fine, Sherrinford,' Mummy muttered. 'There is nothing wrong with my boys.'_

'_I didn't say there was anything wrong with them,' Daddy said, no doubt reaching for a glass of scotch. 'But you have to admit they are–'_

'_Different,' Mummy said. 'They are different.'_

'_Mycroft doesn't enjoy anything other than manipulating people and taking care of Sherlock,' Sherrinford tried. 'And Sherry... he's too wild, Camille, too unpredictable. He's going to get himself hurt.'_

'_They are fine!' Mummy snapped._

'_No they're not!' Daddy retorted._

_Mycroft had had enough. Sherlock was trembling now and Mycroft grabbed him, hauling his little brother up and away. He didn't stop until they were around the house. Sherlock pushed Mycroft away._

'_M'fine, Mycroft,' he murmured but there were tears welling in his eyes._

'_Sherlock, please, Daddy didn't mean any of that,' Mycroft said though he knew the elder Holmes did. Sherrinford meant everything he said, even when he was drinking. 'The doctor was wrong.'_

'_No she wasn't,' Sherlock sniffed. 'She was right... something wrong with us.'_

'_No there's not.'_

_Sherlock turned to scowl at him. 'There is, Mycroft! We're wrong!'_

_Mycroft reached out for him and Sherlock wilted, letting his big brother pull him in for a hug. 'It's okay, Sherlock,' Mycroft murmured against his brother's raven curls. 'I'll take care of you.'_

'_Promise?'_

'_Yes.'_

* * *

><p>Mycroft woke with a headache, his stomach churning and arse throbbing. He remembered the night's events clearly... well, most of them. He remembered finding a pub and sloshing back five drinks in half-an-hour. He remembered finding a young man to satisfy his sexual needs... he also remembered not having protection, not caring, and Sherlock's shouts when he'd discovered them in the alley.<p>

Mycroft had never been so angry at his little brother. Honestly, Sherlock had interrupted right in the middle and basically thrown the guy away. Mycroft hadn't even had time to take the cocaine the twenty-something year-old had offered. Sometimes Mycroft really hated his brother.

He pulled himself from bed groaning, skin cold and clammy. He was shirtless but thankfully in pyjama pants... he didn't want to think about who had dressed him.

Mycroft moaned loudly when he realised the depression was back; he wanted to crawl back into bed and stop breathing completely, or at least just sleep forever. What the bloody hell kind of manic episode was that? It had lasted all of five hours. Sometimes they lasted a day, or a week. The best had been one whole month of booze, drugs and sex. Mycroft had never felt more alive.

He needed water to wash the stale taste of alcohol and cigarettes from his mouth. Mycroft stumbled from bed and went to his door, pulling it open.

'So what do you think he has?'

Greg's voice had echoed down the quiet hallway and Mycroft paused to listen. It was obvious the DI was talking about Mycroft. What wasn't obvious was why the cop was still there at all. Mycroft had caught the time on his bedside table; he'd left Greg running through London at least ten hours ago.

'Well, it could be a number of things,' John said, 'but his symptoms fit bipolar disorder.'

Mycroft froze as Greg asked, 'Bipolar?'

'It's more commonly known as manic-depression. It's a mood disorder that's characterised by abnormally elevated, or manic, episodes and abnormally depressed periods of time. It would explain Mycroft's depression, why he does drugs, why he has the job he has, and also his over-protectiveness of Sherlock.'

Apparently Greg was still confused because John continued.

'Bipolar disorder is hard to diagnose because the symptoms vary with each person. Basically the person suffers from major depression; they feel angry, hurt, tired, anxious, and basically just hate... everything. They want to die, they can't see the point of living.'

Mycroft could feel his heart speeding up and his mind was racing. No, John couldn't know; he couldn't have guessed the truth.

'That's countered with manic episodes; periods of time when the person experiences an extended euphoric mood. They barely sleep or eat, their mind races, they do things they wouldn't normally do. A lot of the time they turn to drugs and alcohol.'

Mycroft sighed. He wished his manic episode had lasted longer.

'Right,' Greg said slowly. 'And you think Mycroft is bipolar?'

'He might have bipolar II,' John said, 'it would explain everything really. But it might just be major depression; I don't know if he's had any manic episodes. I mean, from what you tell me it sounds like he had a hypomanic episode today but unless he actually tells me how he feels during one I can't help properly.'

'Yeah,' Greg sighed.

'The only way we can get a diagnosis and get him some treatment is if he admits to all his symptoms but it doesn't look like he's going to do that,' John said and yawned. There was the sound of a fridge opening and Mycroft could imagine them sharing their thoughts over beers.

Mycroft leaned heavily against the wall and stared at his darkened room. So John had guessed correctly; he suspected Mycroft was bipolar. He was, of course (well, bipolar II). Mycroft had diagnosed himself years ago. John was right; he wasn't about to tell them anything.

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want help; he didn't bloody need it. If he went to a doctor, if he told John how he really felt, they'd just stick him on pills and force him to talk about himself. Mycroft didn't want his life dictated by 'happy pills' and he really, really didn't want the manic episodes to end. There were too many weeks in-between each episode but when they did happen it was the best feeling Mycroft had ever had. There was no darkness, no emptiness, no gut-wrenching agony. It was just... everything was good.

Until he crashed. And he did that spectacularly... like tonight. More than once he'd woken up in an unknown location surrounded by people he didn't know; hungover, detoxing, naked. He'd made so many stupid decisions during his manic episodes. But the euphoria, the control, it made the agitation, the crashes, the risk so much easier to handle.

Mycroft realised his hands were shaking and swallowed, folding his arms tightly. He was feeling agitated now; his blood pumping, his heart thumping... why were Greg and John there? And Sherlock, why couldn't they all just go away? Mycroft had gone forty-four years without them and he could continue for another forty-four. He knew what was wrong with him, knew the diagnoses. Telling other people wouldn't help.

Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

'John?' Greg asked and Mycroft paused to listen.

'Yeah?'

'I... what are we going to do?'

The doctor sighed. 'We're going to stay here until he admits he has a problem. Sherlock's not going anywhere and neither am I.'

'Yeah, me either.'

'Mycroft's too stubborn to admit he needs help, Greg. He might never admit it.'

'I don't care,' Greg said. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

There was an emotion in his voice that Mycroft couldn't grasp; couldn't understand. He stepped through his door quickly and down the hallway, careful not to make a sound. He didn't know where Sherlock was and didn't fancy getting caught eavesdropping by his brother.

John and Greg were sitting at the kitchen table sipping from beer bottles. Greg looked tense, his shoulders drawn together. John was looking at him carefully, eyebrows together.

Suddenly John's eyes went wide. 'Oh.'

Greg nodded. 'Yeah. Idiot, huh?'

'No, Greg, I didn't mean that,' John said and bit his lip. 'Are you sure that's wise?'

'Probably not,' Greg said and took a drink. 'But there's nothing I can do now.'

'Already?'

'Yeah.'

Mycroft didn't understand and frowned. What were they talking about? What had John so worried and Greg so tense?

'I'm not sure whether I should be happy or sad for you,' John said and Mycroft turned his back. He didn't want to listen anymore; he couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle John's knowledge.

'Yeah,' Greg said as Mycroft walked back to his room. 'Me either.'


	10. If I Crash On The Couch

**Chapter Ten: If I Crash On The Couch Can I Sleep In My Clothes?**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: <strong>The Sharpest Lives by My Chemical Romance

* * *

><p>'<em>Oh, Sherlock,' Mycroft sighed. John was nowhere to be found and Sherlock was on the floor, curled up. There was a used syringe beside his body and his entire frame thrummed with cocaine. 'What happened?'<em>

_Sherlock moved and looked up at Mycroft, eyes blown from drugs. 'John's gone,' he slurred._

'_Where?'_

'_Sister's. We... fight...'_

_Mycroft sighed again and bent down to pick his brother up. He carried him to the couch and sat, pulling a discarded blanket over Sherlock. 'It's okay.'_

'_S'not,' Sherlock murmured. 'I... coke... again...'_

'_It doesn't matter, Sherlock,' Mycroft said, brushing his brother's unruly curls aside. 'It doesn't matter how many times you fail. I will always be here to help you up, okay?'_

'_What if... I... again?'_

'_It doesn't matter,' Mycroft repeated._

_Sherlock nodded to himself and his eyes flittered shut. Mycroft sat on the couch of 221B, watching his brother carefully as the younger Holmes twisted through the throes of drugs._

* * *

><p>Mycroft shuffled out to breakfast and froze in the hallway. John and Sherlock were talking quietly, heads bent together. They stopped when Mycroft appeared, both looking up at him.<p>

'Morning,' John said, trying for a smile and managing a grimace. Sherlock scowled, as usual.

'Good morning,' Mycroft sniffed. His head still hurt and he needed coffee. He busied himself in the kitchen, taking as long as possible to make a strong black coffee. He dumped the sugar in and stirred slowly, eyes on the counter.

'So...' John began, clearing his throat. 'How are you feeling?'

Mycroft considered saying fine but knew Sherlock was one sentence away from screaming; his head couldn't take that. 'I feel... okay,' Mycroft murmured, back to his brother and brother-in-law.

'Headache?' John asked. 'Any nausea or vomiting?'

'No,' Mycroft lied.

'Mycroft,' John sighed.

'Please,' Sherlock said, voice barely a whisper. 'For once, Mycroft, just tell the truth.'

Mycroft swallowed a mouthful of burning hot coffee. 'I have a hangover. It's nothing to be concerned about.'

'You going crazy and running from Lestrade is cause for concern,' Sherlock said, words short and biting.

Mycroft's hand gripped the mug tightly, knuckles going white. He'd been hoping to avoid this.

'You running off to God knows where is cause for concern,' Sherlock continued, voice getting shakier and angrier with every word. 'You fucking some stranger in a goddamn alleyway is cause for concern!'

'What I do with my life is none of your business!'

'Is that right?' Sherlock demanded.

Finally Mycroft turned to face his brother, heart pounding painfully in his chest. 'Yes!'

'So all those times you followed me, interfered in my life, that's all different is it?' Sherlock asked. Mycroft pressed his lips together. 'Putting me under surveillance, making my dealers disappear, that's all right? Kidnapping John, fucking overdosing–'

'It was an accident!' Mycroft snapped.

'No it wasn't!' Sherlock shouted, baritone voice echoing around the flat. John remained sitting as his husband stood, hands shaking by his side. 'You tried to kill yourself, Mycroft, and you won't even tell me why! You've done nothing but try to hurt yourself since that night! I'm just trying to understand; I'm trying to help like you helped me!'

'I don't–'

'STOP IT!' Sherlock shouted, gripping his hair tightly. 'JUST STOP IT, STOP LYING! I CAN'T BEAR TO SEE YOU LIKE THIS!'

'Then leave!' Mycroft screamed, though his voice wasn't as loud and shaky as his brother's. 'I don't want you here, I never wanted you here! You've barged into my life and ruined everything!'

Sherlock froze, pale blue eyes wide. 'Ruined everything?' he said, voice dropping suddenly. 'Is that what I've done?'

'Yes.'

Sherlock swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to clear his throat. He turned away, eyes on the wall, tongue coming out to scrape along his lips. 'All those times,' he said softly, chewing on his bottom lip, 'all those times I shouted at you to leave me alone and you didn't. All my life I've pushed you away, screamed and shouted for you to just fuck off. And did you?'

He looked back at his brother, eyes narrowed and demanding.

'Did you?'

Mycroft didn't know if Sherlock actually wanted an answer and chose to keep his mouth shut.

'All those times I was OD-ing in some fucking crack house or on some street, you found me. You found me and made me better again. I never thanked you, never told you how much I appreciated it.' He stopped again, blinking back tears.

Mycroft wanted to do something; hug his brother, or slap him, or just shut him up. His head was pounding and Sherlock's words hurt. It was true, all of it. Every goddamn word.

'I'm just trying to return the favour, Mycroft,' Sherlock choked. 'All I'm trying to do is make you better. And you shouting and denying it isn't going to stop me, no matter how much it hurts.'

Mycroft turned away, facing the counter again. He wished John would speak and shut his stupid husband up.

'You can hit me and scream at me and do whatever you like,' Sherlock continued, eyes boring into the back of Mycroft's head. 'But I'm not going anywhere until you're healthy.'

Mycroft didn't trust himself to speak. He'd say something hurtful; something that would actually make Sherlock leave. But isn't that what he wanted? Didn't he want Sherlock and John gone so he could get back to his old way of life?

Sherlock sat down heavily and John put an arm around him, brushing Sherlock's curls back and murmuring under his breath. Mycroft caught sight of them and his gut twisted painfully. It used to be him who did that; he was the one who comforted Sherlock when Daddy was drunk, when Mummy was shouting. It was Mycroft, always Mycroft.

But Sherlock didn't need him anymore.

Mycroft stepped from the room quickly, coffee abandoned on the counter. He could feel Sherlock and John watching him but didn't dare look back.

{oOo}

John had to go into the surgery around eleven, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft alone. Mycroft avoided his brother by staying locked in his study, pouring over documents and trying to ignore the aching feeling in his bones. He didn't know how much longer he could go on like this.

{oOo}

It was a week before Mycroft got his chance. Lestrade called with a case and Sherlock and John swirled away, leaving Mycroft with a rather dopey looking guard who stood outside his front door. He wondered just how much help the man would be if he decided to slash his wrist with a knife. Not that he was going to... he didn't think he was, anyway.

The itching was insane now, like there were beetles under his skin. He'd scratched his arms raw and there were scabs along his pale arms, the skin raised into a throbbing mess. He clawed a hand through his hair before going for the door.

Mycroft bumped right into the guard, apologising quickly. 'So sorry, I thought I heard something.'

'No matter, sir,' the guard nodded. 'I will take care of anything that comes this way.'

Mycroft swallowed and forced himself to smile. He stepped back into the flat, shutting the door quickly. He drew the guard's mobile from his pocket and stared at it for a second before dialling the number he'd committed to memory.

He headed for the bathroom as the phone rang out, turning on the shower and closing the door.

''_Lo?_'

'Hello, Brand, how are you this morning?'

Even without a name the man, Brand, knew who he was talking to. How many men called a drug dealer and asked about their day?

'_Suits, I wondered when I'd hear from ya,_' the young man drawled. '_What can I do_?'

'I need the usual,' Mycroft murmured, talking low. He knew A would have bugged the flat (on Sherlock's orders, of course). He couldn't risk being caught now. 'But there's been a situation...'

'_Yeah_?'

Mycroft took a deep breath. 'It will be a little... complicated, getting my order to my flat. But I assure you I will make it worth your while.'

He waited, holding his breath as the drug dealer mulled it over.

'_I'm listening._'

{oOo}

There was a knock on the door and Mycroft stood, wiping sweat from his face. He was trembling slightly but managed to take a few calming breaths before pulling the door open.

The guard stood behind a pale looking man with dark bags under his eyes. He had a pizza box in his hands and smiled. 'Pizza delivery.'

'Did you order pizza, sir?' the guard asked.

'Yes, thank you,' Mycroft smiled. He took the box and passed the large wad of cash under it to Brand. The man smiled broadly.

''Ave a good day,' he said.

Mycroft nodded and closed the door quickly. He dropped the pizza box on the kitchen table and flipped it open, tipping the food aside to reveal what he was really after.

A clear plastic bag with melted cheese over the top, cocaine in the middle. Mycroft groaned and picked the bag up, eyes fixed on the drugs. It had taken a little convincing but Mycroft had talked Brand into picking up a pizza and pretending to be a delivery boy. He'd paid handsomely, of course, but money wasn't what mattered now.

He walked quickly to his room, closing the door and locking it behind him. He dropped to sit against the wall, cradling the bag like it was a newborn baby. He bit his lip as he tipped the contents onto a small table, plucking a sharp razor blade from the powder.

Mycroft went into autopilot, his muscles taking over. He began cutting the powder, moving quickly, skin tingling as he finally, finally cut the drugs into even lines.

He paused then, realising he didn't have any syringes. John wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave any medical equipment lying around.

The need was bubbling inside his gut, his skin, his goddamn head. It was clawing viciously at his muscles, making them twitch beneath his skin. He knew he was far too dependent on the drug. He needed it like he needed oxygen. But he just couldn't break the endless cycle of buying and taking. He couldn't stop, not now, not when he needed it the most.

Mycroft paused, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He wondered what Sherlock would do when he got back, when he discovered that his brother was snorting coke, high as a kite.

No, it didn't matter what Sherlock thought. All that mattered was stopping the pain, the emptiness, stopping everything. The coke... oh God, the cocaine...

There was a sharp pain in his fingers and Mycroft dropped the razor blade, realising he'd begun shaking and squeezing it too tight. Blood dripped from his fingers but he didn't care as he stared at the powder, at the lines that offered him relaxation and peace.

Slowly Mycroft shifted, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and leaving bloody smears. He bent forward and pressed a finger to one nostril.


	11. Wreck

**Chapter Eleven: Wreck**

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note: This chapter is just for DarkStarr7713 who has kindly reviewed all my latest chapters. Merry Christmas :) Here is another angst and dark chapter. But soon, very soon, there will be some more tender GregMycroft moments. I promise, just bear with me.**_

_**I live to entertain.**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft was panting as he tore through the rubble, fear spiking deep in his body. No, he couldn't lose Sherlock, not like this. His little brother couldn't be brought down by an arrogant criminal mastermind. Mycroft wouldn't let it happen.<em>

_His nails scraped against rock and Mycroft didn't care; he didn't care about the dirt or dust or anything. He just needed his brother._

_There was a cough and Mycroft turned, head snapping to the right. He spotted a figure moving and froze._

'_John?'_

_Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. 'Sherlock!' He was on his feet and tearing towards his brother. There was blood running down Sherlock's grubby face and his expensive suit was torn and covered in dust._

'_John? Where... is he?'_

'_I don't know,' Mycroft said, taking Sherlock's face in his hands. 'Are you okay?'_

'_Fine,' Sherlock said. 'Find John.'_

_Mycroft nodded and turned to help his brother hunt for the rubble. He felt relief settle like an old friend over his entire body. Sherlock was okay, he was alive, he was breathing._

_Mycroft had never felt so happy in his life. He chose to ignore his trembling hands, his aching fear that Sherlock was still unwell. He was alive... that was all that mattered._

* * *

><p>'Do you think he's alright?' John asked as they stepped out of the lift. He was feeling a little sore from a kick in the gut by a criminal but was more worried about Mycroft.<p>

'I don't know,' Sherlock murmured. He hadn't been his usual mental self on the case. Sherlock had mostly muttered deductions under his breath and talked to himself, hands fidgeting. John knew Mycroft's behaviour was affecting Sherlock deeply. He just didn't know how to help.

They were suddenly at Mycroft's flat and the guard nodded at them.

'Maybe we can order some Thai,' John said, rubbing his neck. 'I'm starving.

'Mr Holmes ordered pizza, I'm sure there is some left over,' the guard said.

Sherlock froze, hand on the door. He slowly turned to face the guard. 'What do you mean, he ordered a pizza?' he demanded, glaring at the guard. The man was four inches taller than Sherlock and at least three times as wide but the consulting detective didn't care. He stared him down (if that were possible) and said, 'Say that again.'

'About twenty minutes ago Mr Holmes ordered a pizza,' the guard explained once more. 'A young man came, sick looking, and delivered it. Mr Holmes paid and went back inside.'

Sherlock's hands were shaking and he looked paler than usual. 'You're fired, get out!' he shouted before barging past the guard and into the expensive flat, heading straight for Mycroft's room.

'Sherlock, what's wrong?' John asked as he tried to keep up with his husband's long stride.

'John, why would Mycroft order a pizza?'

'He was hungry?' John tried.

'Don't be stupid!' Sherlock shouted as they pounded down the hallway. 'My brother barely eats as it is and have you ever known him to eat pizza?'

Now that John thought about it, it was a little odd. Mycroft didn't like eating, John practically had to force-feed him every night. There was no way Mycroft Holmes would order a fatty pizza from a local store.

They'd reached Mycroft's room. Sherlock tried the door handle and swore when he found it locked. He slammed his gloved hand against the thick wood and shouted, 'Mycroft, open the door!'

There was no answer and he repeatedly pounded on the door, only stopping long enough to shout.

'MYCROFT– OPEN– THE– DOOR– _NOW_!'

Still there was no answer.

'Sherlock, what is it? What's going on?'

'He ordered fucking cocaine!' Sherlock shouted and kicked the door. He cursed as pain stabbed through his foot but didn't stop shouldering the door. 'Damn it, Mycroft!'

'What? Are you saying the drug dealer posed as a pizza delivery boy?'

'Mycroft would have paid triple for his services,' Sherlock explained, glaring at the wood. 'He would have done anything to get some drugs. I...' he swallowed before continuing, 'I used to do the same thing. John, he might...' his eyes grew wide and frightened, chilling John to the bone, '...what if he overdoses again?'

John turned and started banging on the door with his husband, trying to keep his voice calm and in control.

'Mycroft, it's John. _Please _open the door, I'm asking as your friend and doctor.' No answer. 'Mycroft, please, we're worried. We don't care if you're high just open the door.'

'FUCK!' Sherlock shouted and threw himself against the door. John didn't like seeing Sherlock like this; seeing his manic side. It briefly made appearances during cases and in the bedroom but rarely, and only rarely, did Sherlock's full anger come out to play. It was out now and it wanted blood.

John ignored the desperate and furious look on Sherlock's face in favour of throwing himself against the door. It wouldn't budge and he cursed. 'Want me to ask the guard?'

'He's useless and gone!' Sherlock snarled.

John whipped out his phone as Sherlock continued to try and force the door open on his own. His fingers flew over the buttons before he pressed the mobile to his ear.

'_Lestrade._'

'Greg, it's John,' John said, trying to keep the terror from his voice. What if Mycroft was dead already? What if he'd succeeded in killing himself? 'We need your help.'

-oOo-

It took Greg half-an-hour to get to Mycroft's flat. Sherlock was panting heavily and scratching at the door, as though he could burrow his way in. Greg's mouth fell open; the consulting detective looked a wreck.

'Please,' Sherlock croaked, 'I can't lose him.'

Greg nodded and knocked on the door. 'Mycroft? It's Greg.' They waited but, like all the other times, there was no answer. 'Mycroft, come on. Please?'

There was only silence and Greg looked at John. John nodded and Greg took a breath.

'On three,' he said and lined himself up in-between Sherlock and John. 'One, two, _three_!' Their combined weight smashed into the door and the lock broke. It swung open and Sherlock stumbled, falling flat on his face. John dropped to help him up but Sherlock pushed him away as Greg's eyes swept across the room.

Mycroft was sitting in the farthest corner, elbows on knees. His head was hanging down and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up.

Greg swore as he bounded across the room followed by John and a panting Sherlock. He dropped to his knees. 'Mycroft?' He couldn't tell if Mycroft was breathing and felt fear well up in his gut. No, he couldn't lose Mycroft, not now. Not now that he...

Greg swallowed. 'Mycroft?'

He received a grunt and sighed, letting out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Mycroft was alive.

'Mycroft, can you hear me? It's Greg.'

Slowly Mycroft raised his head and hazy eyes locked onto Greg's. His pupils were blown and he was breathing shallowly. He was very pale, sweat clinging to his forehead, and he'd started clenching and unclenching both hands.

'Mycroft, I need to check your pulse,' John said, deliberately keeping his voice low and commanding. Mycroft made no move to stop the doctor as John leaned forward and clasped his bony wrist in one hand. After a second he nodded and said, 'It doesn't look like he's overdosed; he's just high.'

Greg fell back to sit, pressing himself against Mycroft's cabinet. When he turned to the left he saw a small table lined with white powder. There was a razor blade beside the lines, the steel covered in blood and powder.

'Oh God,' Greg groaned, 'has he cut himself?'

John moved again to check Mycroft over and found cuts on his fingers. 'Looks like he accidently cut himself while chopping up the cocaine.'

'I thought he injected it.'

'Sherlock took all his syringes,' John said and gestured to Mycroft's face. There was a light dusting of powder under his nose. 'He snorted it instead.'

Greg reached forward and brushed the drugs away, Mycroft's skin hot beneath his fingers. He hated the thought of Mycroft sitting alone in his room snorting cocaine. What if he'd overdosed? It would be on purpose, Greg knew that.

Greg ran hands through his hair before pulling a cigarette packet from his pocket. He didn't care if Mycroft shouted at him later; he fucking needed a smoke.

There was a heavy presence beside him and Greg turned to see Sherlock. The man looked absolutely broken and fell to sit beside the DI heavily. He took a cigarette and lit it, staring at his brother and smoking in silence.

Greg had never seen Sherlock so... vulnerable. He looked ready to fall apart all over again; just like that day at the hospital.

When Sherlock finished his cigarette John dragged him up and they disappeared to their room. Greg shifted to look at Mycroft after realising the man was blinking rapidly.

'Are you alright?'

'Mm... yes,' Mycroft said, softly, lips barely moving.

'You're a fucking idiot.'

Mycroft just nodded.

Greg got to his feet, knees popping and back cracking. He stretched before grabbing the table and taking it from the room.

'No!' Mycroft said feebly, raising a shaking arm. 'D-don't!'

'Tough shit,' Greg grunted and placed the table outside the room. He went back in and dragged Mycroft to his feet. The man was far too thin and fell into Greg's arms, hands fisting in the DI's coat.

Greg dragged Mycroft to the bed and sat him down. He removed the man's shoes, socks and tie. Greg pulled Mycroft's shirt out of his trousers, ignoring the flash of skin in favour of dragging the blanket up, undoing the top three buttons of Mycroft's expensive shirt.

'Under,' he said.

Mycroft complied without fuss, crawling beneath the blanket and allowing Greg to pull it up. He sat on the edge of the mattress, staring down at Mycroft.

'Gregory?'

'Yeah?' Greg asked, glad to hear that Mycroft sounded more like himself.

'Please stay.'

'I'm not going anywhere.' Mycroft's left arm came up and tugged Greg down so the older man was lying beside him. 'Erm, Mycroft?'

'Please,' he whispered.

Greg swallowed but nodded and kicked his shoes off. He rolled onto his side to look at Mycroft.

'Thank you,' Mycroft murmured, eyes drifting shut as Greg shouldered out of his coat and jacket.

'You're welcome,' Greg said.

Mycroft settled down and, tentatively, Greg reached out. He rested a hand against Mycroft's arm and the politician hummed. Soon he was snoring and Greg sighed, relief spreading through him like wildfire. He didn't know what he would do if he lost Mycroft. Greg had come to accept that he cared deeply for the man. He didn't care if Mycroft returned the feelings.

Mycroft was alive. For the moment that was all that mattered.


	12. Morning

**Chapter Twelve: Morning**

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note: I give you slightly (very, very slightly) fluffy Mystrade. I promise there will be more in the next chapter.<strong>_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft groaned and rolled over, <em>_head pounding and body aching. He was in a bed, a strange one, and there was a man asleep behind him._

_He frowned as a few hazy images raced through his brain. He remembered leaving work at three pm on a Tuesday before heading to a pub and starting his night... or week, month, however long he'd been gone this time._

_With a yawn, Mycroft sat up and nearly vomited. Nausea swirled through his body as he stumbled from the bed._

_There were clothes everywhere, some Mycroft's and others belonging to persons unknown. Mycroft managed to extract his clothing and dress, noting the time on the alarm clock beside the bed as he did; 12:13pm._

_He didn't know what day it was and honestly wasn't sure he wanted to. He hated the crash, the waking up and getting back to life. His head hurt, his gut ached, and there was a horrible taste in his mouth. Fresh track marks raked his arms, his nose was a bloody mess, and there were used condoms everywhere... well, at least he'd used protection._

_The man started to shift and Mycroft grabbed his shoes, trying to pull them on before he had to speak–_

''_Ello.'_

_Mycroft paused, shoes slipped on but untied. The man was handsome and younger, something Mycroft didn't typically go for. He swallowed and said, 'Hello.'_

'_Leaving?' the man yawned, eyes raking over Mycroft's dishevelled form. It was clear he only wanted one thing. He didn't actually want Mycroft to stay, at least not because he liked him._

'_Yes,' Mycroft said._

'_Oh,' the man grunted. 'See ya.'_

_He turned over and went back to sleep, leaving Mycroft free to make a hasty escape. Mycroft exited the building and winced as harsh summer light slashed his eyeballs. He moaned softly and avoided a few people as he began walking, not sure where he was in his weakened state._

_Everything was so bright and shiny and _loud. _Everything hurt and everything was so terrible. Mycroft hated everything._

_A black car pulled up beside him and Mycroft climbed in, not waiting to see if it was friend or foe. He just wanted out of the sun._

'_Hello, sir.'_

_Oh thank God, it was A._

'_Good afternoon,' Mycroft said, voice hoarse. He rubbed his eyes and felt a bottle of water pressed into his hands. Grateful, Mycroft sucked down the entire thing and leaned back in his seat._

_A paused all of five minutes before asking, 'Are you alright, sir?'_

'_Yes.'_

'_You've been gone five days, three hours and twenty-six minutes.'_

_Mycroft's head ached. 'I am fine.' He knew A would be biting her lips, eyes wide as she looked her boss over. But she was paid to listen to Mycroft, not question him._

_She was also paid by the politician, handsomely, to cover for Mycroft when he went on his binges. She watched from the sidelines as her boss drank, snorted, and fucked his way through a hypomanic episode. She was there to pick up the pieces when he came back._

_A didn't like it... but she didn't know what to do. So, rather than press the matter and get fired (A really liked her job and she didn't trust anyone else to look after Mycroft Holmes), A sighed and said, 'Your first appointment is at seven.'_

'_Thank you,' Mycroft murmured. He'd go home and try to get a few hours sleep. He'd wake up in his pristine bed, head aching and gut swirling. He'd drink water and maybe a sip of scotch to wipe away his headache. He'd wait, alone, until his car came to collect him._

_And then he'd do this all over again._

* * *

><p>Greg woke with a jolt. It was the warm body pressed into his own that was weird, different; the comfortable bed and amazingly soft sheets. He twisted to see that he'd somehow migrated beneath the blankets and was cuddled up against Mycroft.<p>

He swallowed, realising the back of Mycroft's slim frame was pressed up against him, the man's movements sending shivers of pleasure through him. God, it had been so long since Greg had woken up beside someone.

Not that they'd had sex, of course. Greg remembered watching the elder Holmes drop off, breathing heavily as sleep took him. He must have fallen asleep too and crawled under the blankets.

It was morning, early, and Greg felt well-rested; better than he had in a long time. He didn't really know what to do now. There was no way he'd be able to get back to sleep, not with Mycroft so close. The man was so warm and smelled incredible, his aftershave cloaking Greg like a gentle embrace. He badly wanted to reach over and stroke Mycroft's hair, press a kiss to his pale neck. But no, that would be going too far.

Greg put his head back on the pillow and took shallow breaths, not wanting to wake Mycroft. The man was still asleep, breathing low and regular as his chest rose and fell. He had one arm curled beneath the pillows, the other twisted in the blanket at his chest.

The DI stared at him, watching each movement. Eventually his eyes crawled up to Mycroft's face. He had to shift a bit and sit up to get a good look.

Mycroft looked so peaceful and sweet. Gone were the worry lines and anger the man seemed to carry everywhere. Right there and then he was content, resting, completely at ease with everything. God, Greg really did love him.

He remembered his talk with John a week and a bit ago, after Mycroft had gone all crazy and drunk himself into a stupor. That night Greg had realised without a doubt that he really had fallen in love with Mycroft Holmes. He couldn't stop thinking about the man, fantasising him. He wanted to be by Mycroft's side every day and night.

It was completely and utterly stupid; the man was a drug addict, depressed, and hated life. What could Greg possibly offer him? He was just a DI, getting older and crankier at the world. Mycroft was amazingly brilliant, rich, charming and handsome. There was no way Mycroft was interested.

But Mycroft had asked Greg to stay the night before; he'd dragged Greg into bed and only fallen asleep once Greg had touched him with a warm hand. Surely that had to mean something, right? That had to mean Mycroft felt... something.

Mycroft murmured and Greg froze, realising he was still hovering over the younger man. He pulled back quickly as Mycroft rolled over, blinking awake.

Mycroft's eyes locked onto Greg's and they stared at each other, a blush creeping up Greg's face. His heart hammered in his chest and he said, 'Er... morning.'

The politician scrambled back, getting tangled in the sheets and falling back. Greg sat up straighter as Mycroft stood, backing into the wall.

'What... what are you doing in my bed?'

'I fell asleep,' Greg said.

Mycroft was panting, eyes wide. He swallowed convulsively and said, 'I don't understand.'

'Do you remember what happened last night?' Greg asked, trying to remain calm. Mycroft looked set to completely lose control.

Mycroft nodded quickly, eyes on Greg.

'You were high, Mycroft,' Greg said. 'John checked you over and said you were okay. I put you to bed and...' he paused, eyes running up and down Mycroft. Did the man really have to look that good so early in the morning?

'I dragged you into bed,' Mycroft finished, eyes going wider. He started patting down his shirt, trying to regain some form of normality. His shirt was rumpled and untucked, his trousers creased. 'I... I apologise, Gregory. I shouldn't have–'

'It's alright,' Greg said quickly. 'Really, it's fine. You were sick–'

'I was high,' Mycroft cut him off.

'Yeah,' Greg nodded. 'And you needed someone. I get it.'

Mycroft licked his lips and looked away, rubbing his eyes with a blood-stained hand. 'I'm still sorry.'

'S'alright.'

They fell into silence, Greg twisting on the bed. His leg had fallen asleep and he fell to sit on his arse, tangled sheets falling around his ankles. He was mostly dressed, his jacket and coat on the floor with his shoes. His shirt had fallen open, revealing his well-toned chest.

Mycroft bit his lip and looked away quickly, blood rushing to his face.

'Are you okay?' Greg asked and Mycroft nodded. He kept his eyes on the man, hoping he wouldn't have a panic attack. 'Are you sure? You've gone a bit... red.'

Mycroft's head snapped to look at him and, once again, the politician's eyes drifted to stare at Greg's chest. Greg looked down and realised most of his shirt was undone.

'Oh, sorry,' he said and started buttoning it back up. He looked up in time to see Mycroft turn away again, his cheeks pinker than before. Greg frowned, eyes running over the elder Holmes. No... could Mycroft–

The door opened and both men jumped. John Watson stepped into the room, mouth open to say... well, they didn't know what he was going to say. His eyes popped open and his lips parted widely as he took in the sight of Greg in Mycroft's bed.

He turned and spotted Mycroft against the wall and his eyes, if possible, got even wider.

'Uh... what?' the doctor gaped.

'Nothing happened!' Greg said quickly, scrambling off the bed. 'I fell asleep and–'

'Is he okay?' Sherlock asked, appearing behind his husband. He looked from Greg to his brother, noting the rumpled clothing and blushes. 'Oh.'

'Nothing happened!' Greg repeated, standing by the bed and trying not to look at Mycroft.

'Yes, I know,' Sherlock said, still looking between them. 'Come along, John.'

He tugged his husband from the room, closing the door quickly.

'I really must get that lock fixed,' Mycroft murmured.

Greg managed a smile as he tried to fix up his clothes. 'Sorry.'

'It is entirely my fault,' Mycroft said, eyes wandering over to Greg's. They shared a small smile before Greg coughed.

'Right, well... I'll get out of your way.'

Mycroft nodded and watched as Greg grabbed his clothes and shoes, leaving the room as quickly as humanly possible.

-oOo-

Mycroft leaned heavily against the wall, heart racing like mad. He really thought he was going to have a heart attack.

Gregory. In his bed.

Practically half naked.

He groaned, thumping his head into the wall. Not a good idea when he had the beginnings of a migraine welling up behind his eyes. He remembered most of the night; snorting the cocaine and falling into a drug-infused haze. Then someone had pounded at his door, there had been shouting. Greg's voice, sweet Gregory, talking to him and asking questions.

They'd put him in bed and Greg had been there, warm and wonderful. Mycroft remembered touching his arm, lying next to him. He'd never felt that safe in his life.

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to block those thoughts out. He didn't want to feel safe or loved or anything. He couldn't offer Gregory Lestrade anything at all. Mycroft was broken, lost... a drug addicted fucking idiot.

He didn't deserve someone like Gregory Lestrade.

-oOo-

Greg managed to make himself somewhat presentable in the hallway, tucking his shirt back in and smoothing it down. He pulled on his shoes and carried his jacket and coat into the living room.

John was making coffee and Sherlock was sitting at the table, flicking through a newspaper faster than he could possibly be reading it. Greg stood still, not really sure what to say.

'You're in love with my brother,' Sherlock stated.

Greg groaned and fell to sit, putting his face in his hands. His suddenly nice morning had come crashing down.

'I take that to mean yes,' Sherlock said.

'Yeah, fine, whatever,' Greg grunted. 'I love your brother.'

'Interesting.'

'Interesting?' Greg echoed, looking up. Sherlock was watching him carefully, pale blue eyes narrowed. He had the same eyes as Mycroft–

Greg looked away quickly, aware that there was heat rushing up his face. Sherlock smirked.

'Relax, Sherlock,' John said and placed four mugs on the table. 'Don't give him a hard time.'

'What did I do?' Sherlock asked.

Greg was glad to see that Sherlock seemed relatively back to normal; he wasn't swearing or screaming and he looked to be in control of his body. He smiled at John before looking at the DI once more.

'So, Lestrade, what do you plan on doing?'

'About what?' Greg asked, sipping his coffee. He groaned; God that was good coffee.

'About my brother.' Greg raised an eyebrow and Sherlock sighed. 'Please don't be intentionally stupid, Lestrade.'

'It's not intentional; I'm just stupid,' Greg said. 'Isn't that what you always say?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Do you plan on telling my brother how you feel?'

'What? No, why would I do that?'

Sherlock frowned. 'Isn't that what people do?'

'Sherlock, it took you a year to confess you were in love with me,' John reminded his partner, who sighed.

'Yes, John, I realise that. But Gregory isn't me. He should tell Mycroft.'

'Why?' Greg asked.

Sherlock started at him, giving the DI his usual I'm-smarter-than-you look. 'Lestrade, my brother needs something good in his life. I am at a loss as to how I can help him get healthy. He allowed you to stay in his bed, a first, and enjoys your company. I think it's safe to say he returns your feelings.'

The sociopath sipped his coffee and went back to reading the paper, leaving Greg and John to stare at him.

'Tell me he's kidding,' Greg said.

''Fraid I can't tell when he is and isn't,' John smiled, sitting across from Greg. 'Sorry.'

'You're useless,' Greg growled and rubbed his eyes. 'Seriously, what am I going to do?'

'Well–'

'Tell him,' Sherlock said, cutting off his husband. John smacked him on the back of the head. 'Oi!'

'If Greg wants to tell Mycroft he can,' John scolded, 'it's not up to you.'

Sherlock huffed and downed half his coffee, scaling his tongue and earning a chuckle from John.

'Greg, just... it's early days, yeah?' John continued, ignoring the glares Sherlock was throwing him. 'Spend some time with him and get to know him a bit better. Then, if you think he's interested, tell him.'

Sherlock sighed but the two other men ignored him.

'Yeah, 'cause spending time with him has gone real well,' Greg said, fiddling with his cup. 'Though I guess the lunch we had was alright; we talked and it was... nice. It was only dinner that he went a bit mad.'

John smiled reassuringly. 'Just do lunches then.'

Greg chuckled.

'I don't see why you can't be honest and straightforward,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Oh, shut it,' John said and gave him a kiss. Sherlock hummed and smiled at his paper, keep a hand on John's. 'So...' John said slowly, eyeing Greg over the top of his mug. 'Exactly how did you two end up in bed together?'

'God, you're worse than my mum,' Greg said. 'Look, he wanted me to stay, I stayed.'

'And...?' John prompted.

Greg leaned back in his seat, glaring at the doctor. 'I helped him into bed and he asked me to stay so I did. He dragged me into bed and we laid next to each other; him under the covers, me on top– oh, stop being so childish.'

John had giggled as soon as the word 'top' left Greg's mouth.

'Honestly, John, I thought you were the mature one in the marriage.'

John shrugged. 'Sorry, sorry. Go on.'

'_Anyway_, he fell asleep and I just sat there–'

'Watching?' Sherlock asked. 'Very stalker-ish of you, Lestrade.'

Greg sighed. 'Honestly, you two are sending me mad.'

'So he fell asleep...?' John said slowly.

'Yeah and I must have too. We woke up a few minutes before you came in.'

'Right, I see,' John said, nodding.

'John, we didn't sleep together.'

'Mm-hmm.'

'We didn't,' Greg scowled.

'But you'd like to,' Sherlock murmured.

'SHUT UP!'

'Why are you yelling?'

Greg turned quickly to see Mycroft standing in the hallway entrance. He was dressed in pressed trousers and a silk shirt, his shoes expensive and leather. Greg swallowed and looked away.

'Sorry, just... Sherlock... being a prat.'

'Yes, I can see that,' Mycroft said. He approached slowly and sat beside Greg, making sure to keep a good distance between them.

'Did you sleep well?' John asked, grinning from ear-to-ear. Greg scowled at him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow before saying, 'Yes.'

John smiled and Sherlock folded his paper. 'Sherlock, you promised no more yelling at the table.'

'I'm not yelling,' Sherlock said, glaring at his husband. John rolled his eyes as the younger Holmes looked at his brother. 'Mycroft–'

'I apologise for my actions last night,' Mycroft said, eyes drifting to Greg. 'I did not mean to... scare you all.'

'Well you did a fantastic job,' John muttered. 'I really don't know who's stupider; you or Sherlock.'

'I am _not _stupid,' Sherlock huffed.

'Are,' Greg said. Sherlock looked at him and Greg mumbled, 'Erm, ignore me.'

'Lestrade is having lunch with you today, Mycroft,' Sherlock said and all eyes turned to him.

'I am?' Greg asked.

'He is?' John said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, cold blue eyes on his brother. He had expected shouting and hitting, not... lunch dates.

'Yes, as punishment for his actions last night, Mycroft will be eating large lunches every single day of every single week. If he doesn't I will systematically burn everything in his closet.'

'You wouldn't,' Mycroft frowned.

'I will,' Sherlock answered. 'Mycroft, you have no idea how much you scared me last night. And I will do everything in my power to make you healthy. Apparently shouting doesn't work.'

'And you figure destroying my possessions will?' Mycroft asked.

'Yes, I believe so,' Sherlock said.

Mycroft frowned but decided not to say anything. Instead he sipped from his mug and focused on ignoring his headache. He did feel better, though; the cocaine had calmed him down. And waking up with Greg had been rather pleasant.

Lunch. With Gregory Lestrade. As much as it annoyed Mycroft, he thought it was a very nice punishment.


	13. Kiss

**Chapter Thirteen: Kiss**

_Mycroft headed over to Baker Street sometime before nine to check up on Sherlock (his brother would have used the word, 'annoy.') He avoided Mrs Hudson by letting himself in, glad that his lock-picking skills were still up to scratch. He climbed the stairs quickly and raised his umbrella to tap on the door._

_A moan stopped him, Mycroft's arm half extended, a frown on his face. He waited but didn't hear anything else so decided to go ahead with his original plan._

_Another moan, this one louder. Mycroft was puzzled, something he didn't like, so rather than knock he gripped the handle (unlocked) and pushed the door open._

_What he saw made his heart stop and his body freeze. John Watson was sitting on the couch, legs open and head tilted up to catch the red and swollen lips of his baby brother Sherlock. Sherlock was straddling the doctor's lap, eyes closed and hands fisting through John's very short hair._

_Mycroft was frozen in the doorway, eyes locked on his brother and John. He didn't know what to do, couldn't move. Of course he knew his brother was sexually active (it was something he chose not to think about) but he also knew that Sherlock was very much in love with John Watson. What they were doing now wasn't going to be a onetime thing; Sherlock wouldn't be able to handle a one night thing with John._

_Mycroft realised quickly that Sherlock must have finally admitted that he was in love with John. And John... well, John loved Sherlock back. It was obvious from where Mycroft was standing, all so obvious. The reason why a black feeling was swallowing his body was also painfully obvious._

_He was... Mycroft was jealous; jealous that Sherlock now had someone else to open up to, to be with. Jealous that he'd never wanted a partner like that; could never, ever allow himself to be that open with another man. Jealous that Sherlock now, obviously, didn't need him._

_Why would he? John basically took care of Sherlock already. He made him eat, sleep, shower and act human. He chased Sherlock around London and made sure he stayed safe. John could be everything to Sherlock... he _was _everything to Sherlock._

_Which left Mycroft out in the cold. Sherlock didn't need him anymore. If Sherlock was hurt John would be there. If he relapsed John would be there. If he needed _anything_..._

_... John would be there._

_Swallowing back against the crushing devastation that was poisoning his veins, Mycroft made a hasty exit, plans to inject himself into a haze already gripping his brain. It would help wipe the memory of Sherlock and John kissing._

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John kept their eyes firmly fixed on Mycroft for the remainder of the morning. Greg disappeared to work with a promise of meeting Mycroft for lunch. Both men tried to keep the nervousness out of their voices but it wasn't fooling Sherlock or John.<p>

Mycroft glared at his brother and brother-in-law before heading back to his room to make the bed. He couldn't help but let his eyes linger on the sheets, on the side Greg had slept. He remembered waking up next to the man, body's warm and pressed together.

'You like Gregory.'

Mycroft jumped and turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. 'Excuse me?'

'You like Gregory,' Sherlock repeated, which Mycroft found no more helpful than before.

'I don't... Sherlock, stop being childish.'

Sherlock frowned. 'I don't see how my stating your infatuation is childish.'

'I do _not _have feelings for Gregory,' Mycroft said and made a show of smoothing out the sheets, repositioning the pillows and tucking the duvet under them.

'Yes you do.'

'Why would you even say that?'

'It's the truth.'

Mycroft frowned and straightened his shirt. 'Sherlock, we spent the night in bed together, _sleeping. _Yes, I will admit that it was a little... strange. But we didn't have sex, we will never have sex, and I do _not _have feelings for him.'

There was a pause before; 'Yes you do.'

Mycroft turned to glare at his brother. 'I do _not_!'

'If you didn't you wouldn't be repeating it.'

'What?'

Sherlock smiled. 'Mycroft, in the past I have pointed out your feelings. Each time I'm right you repeat over and over again that you don't like the person. When you _don't_ like them you roll your eyes and let it go.' He paused to inspect his nails, eyes drifting back up to lock onto Mycroft's. 'Right now you are insisting, rather poorly, that you don't like Gregory. That does nothing but back up my deduction. John agrees with me, you know.'

'I don't care what your husband thinks!'

'Yes you do.'

'Sherlock!'

'What are you two fighting about now?'

The Holmes brothers paused their fight to look at John.

The doctor yawned and said, 'Sherlock, please give us a minute.'

'But _John_,' Sherlock whined.

John smiled. 'Please?'

With a huff, Sherlock gave his partner a quick kiss before storming down the hallway. Mycroft sat on his bed, rubbing at his eyes.

'You know it's okay to... to like people,' John said, having replaced Sherlock at the door. Now it was John with his arms folded, leaning against the frame and staring at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed. 'Not you too.'

'Yes, me too.'

'Why are you insisting I like Gregory?'

'Because you do.'

'I do _not._'

John smiled. 'Mycroft, it's okay. Deny it all you want, it's not going to change the fact that you like Greg. But if you admit to it, well...'

He trailed off, forcing Mycroft to look at him. 'Well what?'

'If you admit to it,' John said slowly, carefully, 'you can do something about it.'

Mycroft opened his mouth but didn't know what to say. After a minute he finally managed, 'John, I understand most things in the world but I don't understand you.'

'Good.' Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Mycroft, if you admit you like Greg you can... you know, tell him.'

'Why on earth would I do that?'

'So you two can date.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'John, even if I liked Gregory, I wouldn't tell him.'

'Why not?'

'I...' Mycroft trailed off. He liked Greg (but would continue to deny it to Sherlock and John) and was never, ever going to tell him. Why? Because Greg didn't like him. Greg was smart and funny and sexy. He had a good job, a life, family and friends who loved him. What did Mycroft have?

A drug habit. A mood disorder. A drinking and eating problem. A complicated relationship with his brother and mother. He didn't have friends or even colleagues who liked him apart from A. Yes, he was smart... but that was it. He wasn't handsome, or interesting, or... anything. He was just him; Mycroft Holmes.

And Mycroft Holmes did _not _get men like Gregory Lestrade.

Mycroft had looked away from John and was staring at the wall. The doctor could see the insecurities there; Mycroft didn't think he was good enough for Greg Lestrade.

It was complete bollocks. John knew Greg thought he wasn't good enough for Mycroft Holmes. They were both such idiots... couldn't they just put their differences aside and get it on? It would make Greg happy and, hopefully, it would make Mycroft happy as well. And maybe, just maybe, Greg could help Mycroft admit to his problems.

With a sigh, John ran a hand through his hair and said, 'Mycroft, you love Greg, I know you do; it's obvious. My advice is to tell him.'

Mycroft's eyes snapped to the doctor but he didn't say anything. John smiled and left the room, Mycroft's eyes on him the entire time.

-oOo-

As usual Mycroft was dressed in a three-piece suit, hair brushed back and umbrella in one hand. Gregory had texted him to say he was free and would meet Mycroft at one for lunch. Rather than pace back and forth in the kitchen (and listen to Sherlock's and John's comments on his love life), Mycroft disappeared into his study to try and go over a few files.

He mostly stared at the sheets while drumming his fingers against the desk. He was going to have lunch with Greg Lestrade. Yes, they'd have lunch before, but that was before Mycroft realised how much he liked the other man. It was also before Mycroft had got drunk and snorted cocaine. So much had changed, so much was different.

John's, and Sherlock's, words floated around his brain and Mycroft swallowed. His attraction was obvious to them since Mycroft and Greg had fallen asleep beside each other. Mycroft cursed himself. He should have known better than to ask the DI to stay. But in his defence he _had _been high.

Greg had stayed, though. That made Mycroft's heart beat painfully quickly. Why had the man stayed? Had he been worried that Mycroft would do it again? Had he wanted to make sure Mycroft actually fell asleep?

The politician only remembered some of the events before he fell asleep. He remembered dragging Greg down, feeling the mattress dip beneath the other man's weight. He also remembered Greg's large, warm hand on his shoulder.

His skin tingled slightly at the memory and Mycroft sighed. He was in deep.

-oOo-

John and Sherlock were both grinning when Greg arrived. The DI had tried, somewhat failingly, to make himself appear better groomed. He'd tried brushing his hair back and only managed to mess his grey spikes up more. His shirt was tucked in, his jacket and coat both straightened.

'Don't you look nice,' John commented as Sherlock went to get his brother.

'Shut up,' Greg mumbled.

'What did I say?' John asked, grinning. 'I just said that you looked nice, Greg. And you do, really. I'm sure a certain someone will notice.'

'What are you saying?' Greg demanded.

'Nothing,' John shrugged. 'Just, you know... you look... nice.'

'Yeah, so you've said,' Greg growled.

John's grin widened as Sherlock returned with Mycroft.

'Gregory, good afternoon,' Mycroft said, fidgeting with his umbrella. His eyes raked over the DI and John giggled.

'Sorry,' John said, 'just remembering a joke Sherlock told me.'

'Since when does Sherlock tell jokes?' Greg asked.

'All the time,' John said, 'he's a regular comedian.'

'Oh yes,' Sherlock nodded. 'I tell this one about a politician and DI– _oof_!' John elbowed his husband in the ribs and Sherlock glared at him.

John looked from Greg to Mycroft. 'Well off you go, have a nice lunch.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes and stepped from his flat. Greg shot John a glare before following Mycroft, shutting the door loudly behind him.

'Do you think they'll get together?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Maybe, if Mycroft pulls his head out of his arse.'

John chuckled and pulled Sherlock in for a hug. 'So, what should we do with our spare time?'

'We should go to Scotland Yard and get a case,' Sherlock said. 'Dimmock has a new case I've heard.'

'Hmm, yeah,' John nodded and pulled Sherlock closer. '_Or _we could have wild sex in Mycroft's guest room.'

Sherlock grinned wickedly. '_Or_,' he said slowly and gripped John's hips, 'we could have sex on the couch.'

'I like your plan more,' John said and laughed when Sherlock pulled him into the living room.

-oOo-

Mycroft and Greg didn't like how awkward it was. Sitting down at the small cafe, Mycroft kept glancing at Greg before turning away quickly when the DI caught him. They said little as they ordered, sipping their drinks and waiting for the food.

'So...' Greg said slowly and Mycroft looked at him again. 'How are you?'

'No different to how I was this morning.'

'Right,' Greg said and cleared his throat. 'Mycroft, about this morning–'

'It was my fault,' Mycroft cut him off. 'I apologise again for my actions.'

'No, it's fine, really,' Greg said and looked down, blushing. 'It was... nice.'

Mycroft blinked, unsure he'd heard Greg correctly. 'N-nice?'

'Yeah,' Greg said. 'It... I haven't been with anyone in a... a while.' His head snapped up and he began gushing, 'Not that we're together, and not that we did anything, I didn't mean that! I meant... I meant that I just, I just haven't woken up next to a-a man in ages and... damn it.'

Mycroft smiled as Greg scrubbed at his face, sighing and cursing under his breath. 'It's alright, Gregory, I understand.'

'Really?'

'Of course,' Mycroft nodded. 'Waking up next to someone is... nice.'

'How... how long's it been for you?' Greg asked before he could stop himself. He blushed redder as Mycroft fixed him with his pale-blue eyes. 'You don't have to tell me. Ignore me, it's none of my business.'

Mycroft smiled again. 'It's alright, Gregory.'

'You really have to stop saying that.'

Mycroft shrugged. 'It's been... I've never woken up in my own bed with someone.'

'Really?'

'Yes,' Mycroft said. 'Other beds, yes. My own, no.'

'Oh.' Greg felt bad for Mycroft. It seemed the elder Holmes hadn't been in a proper relationship. Greg guessed it would be hard letting anybody in; Mycroft wouldn't want them knowing all his problems.'

'How long has it been for you?' Mycroft asked, uncomfortable talking about his lack of relationships.

'Erm... dunno, really, I can't remember,' Greg said. 'It's been too long. My work gets in the way, you know. Men don't like being stood up all the time.'

'So you've always dated men?' Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. 'Yeah. Well, I dated a few girls when I was a teenager but you know... that was just me trying to convince everyone I was straight.'

Mycroft smiled. 'Yes, I did the same thing until Sherlock outed me at Christmas.'

'He did?'

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded. 'I was twenty-three, he was thirteen. He'd recently started puberty and took great pleasure in deducing my sex life. We had just sat down for dinner when Mother asked about my girlfriend, Nancy.'

Greg smiled as Mycroft spoke, imagining a little Sherlock outing his brother.

'Sherlock put his fork and knife down just as I was getting to telling dear Mummy that I'd had to break up with her. He stood on his chair and proclaimed, loudly, that I was never happy with Nancy as she had the wrong parts.'

Greg giggled and Mycroft felt a smile pull at his lips. 'Really?' Greg asked. 'He said, 'the wrong parts'?'

'Yes, followed by, 'My doesn't like vagina's, Mummy, he thinks they're icky. He likes penises. Tell me, My, are you a top or bottom?''

Greg burst out laughing as the waitress placed their plates on the table. He tried to thank her but couldn't get any words out. Mycroft grinned as he chewed on a chip, waiting for the DI to get a hold of himself.

'And d-do you think they're i-icky?' Greg managed.

Mycroft chuckled. 'In the sense of having sex with them, yes.'

Another fit of giggles took over Greg and Mycroft drank half his lemonade before the DI could breathe properly.

'God, I'm sorry. That's just... God.'

'Yes, it is rather funny,' Mycroft mused. 'Mummy was a little heartbroken; she'd always wanted grandchildren. I tried to explain gay couples could adopt but she still burst into tears. Sherlock just jumped around and shouted that he liked both penises and vaginas and was most likely a top _and _bottom. It really didn't help.'

Greg chuckled. 'So he's bisexual?'

'I suppose so,' Mycroft said, 'though now he most likely classifies himself as gay because he's with John.'

'That makes sense,' Greg said. 'My mum and dad were understanding. Actually, they knew before me. Tried to tell me when I was fourteen that it was okay to be gay and even got me some books. I seriously thought I was going to die of embarrassment.'

'They bought you–'

'Porn basically,' Greg grinned, watching the flush that crept up Mycroft's face. 'My brothers took to asking what kind of men turned me on. They wanted to know what boys at school I thought were pretty.'

'Pretty?'

'They figured I was attracted to pretty men,' Greg shrugged.

Mycroft shifted in his seat and ate another chip. 'And what type of man... _are _you attracted to?'

Greg looked up to see Mycroft's pale cheeks turning pink. He smiled and said, 'I don't have a particular taste, really. I like personality more than looks.' Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Greg said, 'Well, obviously I have to find the person attractive. But I'm not drawn to any type in particular. I like 'em tall, short, muscular, thin, brown hair, grey hair, blue eyes, brown eyes, whatever. As long as I like them they're attractive to me.'

Mycroft nodded along and tried to keep his heart calm. So Greg _might _just find him attractive. The DI _might _like his personality and looks. He _might_ consider getting back into Mycroft's bed... preferably naked this time.

While Mycroft was daydreaming Greg was staring at him. The DI's eyes roamed over the taller man's face, his body, _everything_. He liked everything he saw, including Mycroft's personality and problems. He didn't like that Mycroft was a drug addict/alcoholic/anorexic/_whatever_. For all Mycroft's problems he was still a good man, a funny and charming and bloody brilliant looking man. Greg liked _everything._

'So what's your type?' Greg asked, breaking Mycroft from his thoughts.

'Pardon?' the politician asked, turning red once more. Greg tried not to read too much into that.

'What's your type?' Greg asked.

'Oh... well, I suppose I like being taller than my... partner.'

'Really? Why?'

'Well... I like being able to look down at them and... and put my arms around their waist.'

Greg smiled. _He _was shorter than Mycroft by a whole three inches. 'And?' he asked.

'Erm... I like older man.'

'How much older?'

'When I was younger at least ten or so years,' Mycroft admitted. 'Now I prefer them being a few years older.'

Greg grinned. _He _was three years older than Mycroft. He made a hand motion for Mycroft to continue.

'I... I like men who have worked for what they have; I don't like people who use family money to get through life. And yes, I know that I have family money, but I don't sit back and use it to live. I work hard.'

'I know,' Greg nodded.

'I also like a man I can talk to; a man I can laugh with. I also like when we have differences. It's absurd to be with someone who is just like you. The whole point of a relationship, in my eyes, is to learn new things and learn how to get along with someone who is different to you.'

Greg chuckled. 'You're a smart man, Mycroft Holmes.'

'Am I?'

'Very.'

'I've never heard that before.'

Greg giggled and bit into his burger. 'Shut up.'

Mycroft smiled.

-oOo-

They finished lunch but stayed seated, getting more soft drinks and chatting. Time passed by quickly until Greg realised it was four-thirty.

'Oh crap.'

'What?' Mycroft asked.

'I was supposed to be back at work over three hours ago.'

'Oh,' Mycroft said and checked his pocket watch. 'What time do you finish?'

'Five.'

Mycroft's BlackBerry buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket.

_On a case, flat empty, don't go back alone. I'm texting Lestrade to make sure he knows not to leave you alone._

_SH_

Mycroft looked up just as Greg's phone rang. The DI smiled and turned it to show Mycroft.

_Don't bother going back to the Yard, Donovan and Dimmock covered for you. I'm working a case with Dimmock and John. Do NOT leave my brother alone, he's an idiot and will most likely snort something. Stay for dinner, John will call when we're on our way back._

_SH_

'So...' Mycroft said slowly. 'Would you care to join me for dinner?'

Greg chuckled and stood to pay. 'Yeah, sounds good.'

-oOo-

They ordered takeaway and sat on the couch eating, talking and watching a DVD. Mostly they talked and picked food from each other's containers. Mycroft managed to eat an entire container, much to Greg's joy.

By nine Sherlock and John still weren't back and the two men had slunk down on the couch, shoulders pressed together. They were watching _The Big Bang Theory _and Mycroft was explaining all the physics jokes and equations.

'Do you realise I didn't understand any of that?' Greg said.

'Yes, I was aware.'

'So why'd you tell me?'

Mycroft shrugged. 'I like talking to you.'

'Really?' Greg asked and shifted so he was sitting straighter. His legs were tucked under his arse and he was facing Mycroft.

'Yes,' Mycroft said and turned to look at the DI. 'You actually listen, unlike Sherlock and some people I work with.'

Greg smiled. 'I listen because you're interesting.'

'Do you think so?'

'Absolutely.'

Mycroft felt his heart speed up as Greg continued to look at him. All day he'd felt the overwhelming urge to kiss Gregory Lestrade. He wasn't sure if the DI was interested, though, so had managed to hold himself back.

But it was getting really, really hard. Greg had giggled at every funny story Mycroft had told. He'd approved of each DVD Mycroft had chosen and had even spooned food into the politician's mouth when Mycroft commented that his food look nice.

On top of that Greg had shed his coat and jacket, his shirt unbuttoned to show brown chest hair and tanned skin. His cologne was making Mycroft hard and it was getting impossible to ignore the warm arm pressed against his own.

Mycroft couldn't contain himself any longer and quickly pushed forward. Their lips pressed together softly and Greg gasped against him. It was a quick, chaste kiss and Mycroft pulled back quickly, heart beating painfully fast. Had he done the wrong thing? Had he miss-read Greg's signs?

He swallowed as the DI continued to sit there, mouth dropping open.

'I apologise,' Mycroft said, hands twitching as he stood. 'I'll go.'

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: I hope you like the chapter and Happy New Year :)<strong>_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_


	14. Boyfriend

**Chapter Fourteen: Boyfriend**

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><p><strong><em>Author's Note: Okay, I've spent the entire day writing BECAUSE I can't watch Sherlock. Here in Australia it is the 2nd January already. So to all you British people who could watch Sherlock, curse you! Enjoy my own little taste of Sherlock!<em>**

**_Also warnings for Mystrade smut._**

* * *

><p><em>The first boy Mycroft kissed slapped him in the face. The second punched him. The third thanked him before leaving. The fourth kissed him back.<em>

_It was a nice kiss; soft, wet, and everything seventeen-year-old Mycroft Holmes needed. He'd never been able to tell his parents or brother he was gay but right then and there, in the privacy of his room with Douglas, it didn't matter._

_Until Douglas pushed Mycroft back onto his bed. Yes, okay, Mycroft was seventeen and really needed sex. But he just wasn't ready. It took him five minutes to push Douglas off and the boy growled at him._

_'What?'_

_'I'm not ready.'_

_'You're a virgin?' Douglas scoffed. 'Figures.'_

_Mycroft glared at him. 'What are you saying?'_

_'You're cute and all but... weird,' Douglas shrugged. He stood and brushed down his clothes. 'Well, if I ain't getting any I'm outta here.'_

_'What?' Mycroft gasped, standing to stare after Douglas. 'Wait, you can't!'_

_Douglas smirked. 'Seeya.'_

_Mycroft Holmes was left in his room, alone, horny and angry. He felt the deep darkness that always floated around come up to claim his heart. It helped stop the tears._

* * *

><p>Mycroft turned to leave but was suddenly dragged down roughly. He yelped and turned but couldn't say anything before Greg was pressing against him.<p>

Greg's body was so warm and delicious; Mycroft groaned as the DI shifted to fit their lips together better. Why had Mycroft waited so long to do this? Kissing Gregory Lestrade was the best feeling in the world; it was hot and made his skin tingle, his groin throb. Oh God, he never wanted it to end.

Greg pulled back, gasping for breath, staring at Mycroft like he couldn't quite believe he'd kissed him. 'Mycroft–'

It was Mycroft's turn to push forward. They sat side by side as Mycroft mashed their mouths together, lips wet and hot. There was nothing chaste about this kiss; their mouths were sloppy against each other, heads tilting and bobbing back and forth as each tried to claim the other's lips.

Greg hands grabbed Mycroft's hair, twisting the brown strands through calloused fingers. Mycroft's groan turned into a gasp when he felt Greg's tongue slide past his lips. He opened his mouth more and Greg's tongue plunged inside, plundering his mouth and searching every single part.

Nothing would ever taste as good as Greg Lestrade's mouth. Mycroft would gladly substitute every single meal for the rest of his life as long as he could have access to Greg.

Mycroft pulled Greg closer and they fell back onto the couch, Greg shifting to fit himself better against the politician's body. Mycroft moaned and pulled at Greg's shirt, shoving his hands up to touch the warm skin he'd admired for so long.

Greg's hands were still in Mycroft's hair, his fingers twisting and twirling in an aim to pull Mycroft closer and closer.

They had to break apart for air and laid panting against each other, Greg's heart thumping in his chest as he stared down at Mycroft. He could feel the taller man's own heart beating quickly against him.

'Mycroft,' Greg said and let his hands slide down to cup the politician's face.

'I've wanted to do that for so long,' Mycroft admitted.

'Really?'

Mycroft nodded, eyes raking over Greg's body. 'I've always noticed your... looks,' he said and blushed slightly, making Greg smile. 'But lately I... I've wanted more.'

'More?' Greg asked.

'Yes,' Mycroft said. 'More of you; of talking to you and being with you. Waking up next to you was... I haven't slept that well in years.'

'Me either,' Greg admitted and Mycroft's eyes came up to his. 'Mycroft, you have no idea how hard it's been for me to stay away from you. I thought... I thought you wouldn't want me.'

'Why wouldn't I?' Mycroft asked. 'You're handsome, smart, funny, attractive and...' he trailed off and looked away.

'What?'

He sighed. 'And you put up with me,' Mycroft said softly. 'You saved my life and... and you care about me, even before we really knew each other. I've... nobody's ever cared for me like that before.'

Greg hated the broken, fragile look on Mycroft's face. He hated full stop when Mycroft was upset.

'Well I _do _care,' Greg said and once more Mycroft looked at him. 'I... I think I'm falling in love with you.'

He didn't say the complete truth; that he was pretty sure he _already _loved Mycroft Holmes. He didn't want to scare Mycroft away.

'Really?' Mycroft asked and Greg nodded. One of Mycroft's hands moved from Greg's back to stroke the DI's face, skin soft and warm against Greg's stubble. 'I feel the same way, Gregory.'

Greg grinned. 'Good. So we can get back to this.' He dropped his head to press their lips together, Mycroft smiling against him.

They exchanged soft, slow kisses, lips pressed together and tongues darting out lazily to scrape against each other. Mycroft's hands were back up the DI's shirt, soft fingers slowly trailing along Greg's spine. Greg moaned every time Mycroft touched a spot on his lower back and Mycroft took great pride in making his elder lover whimper every few seconds.

'Stop that,' Greg mumbled against Mycroft, not breaking the kiss.

'Don't know... what you're... talking... about...' Mycroft managed, tilting his head to give Greg a longer, wetter kiss.

'Bastard,' Greg moaned when Mycroft did it again.

Mycroft grinned and dug his fingers into the spot, Greg arching into him.

'Fuck,' he moaned, his erection bumping into Mycroft's and making him shudder.

Mycroft did it again and pushed himself up at the same time. Soon they were rutting against each other, Mycroft's fingers digging into Greg's soft flesh. Greg had taken to gripping Mycroft's shoulders, lips and tongue quickening as he pushed himself down.

Suddenly Greg stopped and pulled away, breathing laboured and face flushed.

'What?' Mycroft asked, panting in an attempt to get his breath back.

'Should stop that,' Greg said, licking his lips. 'I don't wanna come in my pants.'

Mycroft smiled and pulled his hands free to grip Greg's arms. 'No, we wouldn't want that.'

'But I still have an erection,' Greg said and Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'And so do you.'

'Yes, I am aware of that.'

'Well, what are we going to do about it?' Greg asked.

If that wasn't an invitation for sex Mycroft didn't know what was. He sat up quickly and Greg pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed Mycroft's hand, fingers twining together as he pulled the taller man towards his bedroom.

Mycroft's heart was hammering in his chest as he looked at their connected hands. He'd just spent the past twenty minutes making out with Gregory Lestrade. Now they were holding hands and heading for the bedroom... dear God, he was actually going to have sex with Greg!

Mycroft pulled back on Greg's hand, forcing the older man to stop. 'What?' Greg asked.

Mycroft pulled Greg closer and wrapped his arms around the DI's waist. He looked down into Greg's eyes and said, 'There's no reason to rush, Gregory.'

Greg rolled his eyes but grinned. 'So...' he said, arms coming up to hook around Mycroft's neck. 'You're taller than me.'

'Yes, I am,' Mycroft smiled.

'And I'm older.'

'Yes,' Mycroft said.

Greg grinned. 'I work hard and definitely _don't _come from family money. I don't like wine or politics and I _love _punk rock music... we're so different it's scary.' Mycroft chuckled and pressed a kiss to Greg's lips. 'We're practically perfect for each other,' Greg murmured.

'Yes, we are,' Mycroft responded.

'Mycroft?'

'Mm?'

'Can I call you my boyfriend?'

Mycroft pulled back quickly, eyes raking over Greg. 'Yes,' he said after a minute. 'I'd like that.'

'Really?'

'Absolutely,' Mycroft nodded.

Greg grinned and kissed him again. 'Good.'

Mycroft pushed Greg against the door of the guest room and Greg groaned, angling his head up to kiss Mycroft heatedly. His arms tightened around Mycroft's neck, keeping the politician in place.

Mycroft's hands had dropped to grip Greg's hips and he pushed a knee between his legs, rubbing against Greg's trousers.

'God,' Greg groaned. 'What happened to not rushing?'

'You want to be my boyfriend,' Mycroft said. 'Forgive me for losing control.'

Greg giggled as Mycroft peppered kisses along his jaw, moving down to suck at his neck.

'Mycroft, don't you dare give me a hicky.'

Mycroft smiled against Greg's skin. 'I wouldn't dream of it,' he murmured and sucked back harder.

'Mycroft,' Greg warned.

'Yes, okay,' Mycroft sighed and pulled back. Greg's lips immediately connected with his and Mycroft melted into it, body pressed against Greg's.

'Bedroom,' Greg demanded and pulled away, once more dragging Mycroft down the hallway. Greg pushed the elder Holmes onto the large bed and straddled his hips, legs warm and strong on either side of Mycroft.

He attacked Mycroft's lips, sucking the bottom one between his own and making Mycroft moan. Mycroft's hands twisted in the duvet and he pulled his legs up, knees resting against Greg's arse.

'Guest room,' Mycroft moaned against him, chewing on Greg's bottom lip. 'Lube... condoms...'

Greg was up already, scrambling across the bed and shedding clothes as he went. He pushed into the guest room, glad that Sherlock and John were out. He went through the bedside table and found a half-used bottle of lubricant and a box of condoms.

He groaned loudly when he got back to the main room; Mycroft had already shed his shirt and was working on his belt. He was sitting on his knees, head tilted to watch what he was doing. Mycroft looked up slowly and blushed, belt falling open.

'God you're beautiful,' Greg gasped, kicking off his shoes. He slipped from his trousers and climbed back onto the bed, dropping the condoms and lube. His hands reached out and slid Mycroft's belt free before undoing the buttons and zipper. Mycroft watched carefully as he sat back and lifted his hips, Greg pulling his trousers clear.

Greg climbed back onto Mycroft's lap and trailed kisses up his chest, stopping when he reached his lips. It took a minute for Greg to realise Mycroft wasn't kissing back and the DI pulled himself up.

'Mycroft?'

The politician wasn't looking at him, instead looking off to the right. His fingers were twisting in the sheets.

'Mycroft, what's wrong?' Greg asked. 'We can stop if you think we're moving too fast.'

'No,' Mycroft shook his head. 'It's... it's not that.'

'What is it?' Still Mycroft said nothing and Greg sighed. He leaned down a little and kissed Mycroft softly, breathing words against the taller man's lips. 'Mycroft, tell me what's bothering you. Whatever it is I'll try and help.'

Mycroft sighed and slowly looked Greg in the eye. 'I don't... I don't like myself.'

Greg raised an eyebrow.

'My... my body,' Mycroft mumbled.

Oh, Greg got it now. He looked down carefully and saw that Mycroft was way too skinny. He'd gained a little weight since Greg had found him OD-ing on his living room floor but his ribs and hip bones were still prominent. His chest and stomach were covered in light ginger hair that disappeared under his underwear and his legs were really skinny.

Greg saw track marks and scars on Mycroft's arms, little black dots marking his drug addiction and long thin lines his self-mutilation. Mycroft watched Greg take him in and squirmed, wanting to pull back and cover himself.

'Mycroft,' Greg said slowly and pinned the politician to the bed by his arms. 'I don't care about any of that.'

'You don't?' Mycroft asked.

Greg sighed and said, 'Well, I care that you're doing this to yourself but... I still find you attractive, I still care about you. Right now none of this matters, okay? You never just enjoy anything, Mycroft. Right now we're going to forget about all our problems; we're going to forget about criminals and drugs and everything else that we hate. We're just going to focus on being together.'

Mycroft looked up into Greg's eyes, his own pale-blue one's looking scared and so fragile.

'I mean it,' Greg said and gave Mycroft a quick, soft kiss. 'Right now none of that matters, okay? We're just going to be together.'

Slowly Mycroft nodded and said, 'Okay.'

'You're okay with that?'

'Yes,' Mycroft said.

Greg smiled. 'Good.' He bent to kiss Mycroft again and this time the politician kissed back, lips hard and demanding. Greg trailed a hand up Mycroft's thigh and slipped his fingers under the edge of his underwear, finding the hot, hard flesh that was still covered.

'Oh,' Mycroft moaned as Greg's fingers trailed along his cock, touching the slit and spreading pre-come. 'Oh, please, more.'

Greg grinned and shifted back to pull Mycroft's underwear down. He took a second to admire the view, smiling as he looked at the ginger pubic hair curling around Mycroft's rather long cock. He wrapped a hand around and pulled, Mycroft bucking into his touch.

The DI enjoyed jerking Mycroft off for a few minutes, his own cock straining against his boxers. He grinned as Mycroft's eyes closed, his teeth biting into his bottom lip.

'Gregory... please...' Mycroft begged. 'M-more.'

Greg decided to give in and climbed off Mycroft to pull his underwear completely free. He sat back and pushed a hand into his own boxers, gripping his cock and stroking. Mycroft's eyes locked onto Greg's crotch and he watched in silence, Greg moaning softly as he continued to masturbate.

Mycroft pushed Greg back and the DI flopped back onto the bed as Mycroft pulled his boxers clear. Suddenly Mycroft's mouth was wrapped around Greg's cock and the DI groaned loudly.

Mycroft moaned as Greg's cock slid against his tongue, the DI's salty pre-come trickling into the back of throat.

'M-Mycroft, I'm gonna...'

Mycroft pulled back immediately and continued stroking, his thumb pulling at Greg's testicles.

'So,' Greg said and looked up at Mycroft with lust-blown eyes. 'Are you a top or bottom?'

Mycroft chuckled and said, 'I go both ways.'

Greg giggled as he sat, pulling Mycroft in for a kiss. 'Me too.' Their lips were sloppy against each other before Greg was pushing Mycroft onto his back. 'But tonight I'm a top.'

'How marvellous,' Mycroft smiled as Greg pushed his legs aside. The DI grabbed the bottle of lube and popped the cab, pouring cool gel onto his fingers. He warmed it between his hands and slipped one down to grab Mycroft's cock again. He stroked twice before moving to rub lubricant across Mycroft's arse.

Mycroft shivered as Greg continued to rub, his legs trembling and hands clenching in the sheets. He gasped loudly when a finger entered him, Greg beginning a soft and slow thrust.

'You okay?' Greg asked and Mycroft nodded. 'Tell me if you aren't.'

He added another finger and Mycroft squeezed around him, hands coming up to pull at his hair. He pushed himself down, burying Greg's fingers deeper in.

Greg chuckled. 'A bit eager, aren't you?'

Mycroft opened his mouth to retort but gasped when Greg curled his fingers to touch his prostate.

'Oh, fuck,' Mycroft moaned and once again pushed himself down. 'Please, Gregory.'

'Please what?'

'More.'

'More what?'

'Fuck me!' Mycroft shouted.

Greg grinned and removed his fingers. 'Very well.' He pulled open a condom and rolled the rubber onto his cock, using his lube covered hand to slick himself up. He added a bit more and looked up to see Mycroft watching him.

Once done, Greg pushed Mycroft up the bed so the politician's head was on his pillows, Greg kneeling between his legs.

'Ready?' Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded.

Greg pushed in slowly and both men groaned, eyes closed as Greg's cock was completely swallowed by Mycroft's arse. They both paused, breathing heavily and staring at each other. Neither could quite believe that they were there, finally, having sex with each other.

Mycroft smiled and wrapped his legs around Greg's hips, pulling him in closer. Greg was dragged in even deeper and he groaned, hands tightening on Mycroft's hips. He pulled out before sliding back in, Mycroft groaning and throwing his head back.

Greg set a steady pace, marvelling at how tight Mycroft was getting around him. It seemed with every thrust Mycroft clamped down even more and Greg wasn't sure how long he'd last.

Mycroft's hands reached up to grab the headboard and Greg wrapped his own fingers around them, holding them in place. Mycroft looked at him and Greg grinned.

'Wouldn't want you touching yourself and coming too soon, now would we?'

Mycroft smiled and bit his lip. 'Mmf... no... suppose not.'

He grunted in time with Greg's thrusts, heels digging into the DI's arse.

'Oh God, harder!'

Greg pushed in deeper and was soon pounding away, head thrown back and mouth falling open. Mycroft tried to free his hands but didn't have the strength, instead resorting to trying to pull Greg closer for more friction.

Greg took pity and leaned forward, dropping so Mycroft's cock rubbed against both their stomachs. He took Mycroft's lips in his own and kissed him hotly, passionately, tongues coming out to twirl around each other.

'Oh God,' Mycroft moaned, 'I'm... fuck... Gregory!'

The extra friction against his cock had Mycroft coming, leaking across himself and Greg. He got tighter around Greg and the DI moaned loudly into his lover's mouth as an orgasm was pulled from him roughly.

They shuddered against each other, body's aching and basking in the afterglow of sex. Mycroft moved first, lips soft and tentative against the DI's. Greg moaned softly and kissed back, body moving with each panting breath.

Finally Greg pulled out and rolled off the bed. His legs were shaky as he went to the en-suit bathroom to grab a towel. He cleaned himself up, pulling off the condom and dropping it onto Mycroft's bedside table.

Mycroft was in the same position, fingers still curled around the headboard. Greg cleaned him up and managed to pull Mycroft's hands free. He rolled the duvet up and pushed Mycroft under before settling in himself.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg and held him close, placing soft kisses against the DI's neck.

'Thank you.'

Greg chuckled. 'You're welcome. I enjoyed it too.'

'Are you staying?'

'I can't go anywhere, you fucked me.'

Mycroft smiled. 'Good,' he whispered. 'I don't want you leave.'

'I never will, Mycroft,' Greg said and turned to kiss Mycroft softly. 'I promise.'

Mycroft smiled and closed his eyes as Greg turned him, Mycroft's back now pressed into the DI's front. Greg sighed in content as he took began to fall asleep, arms wrapped tightly around his boyfriend.


	15. Breakfast

**Chapter Fifteen: Breakfast**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Note: Okay, wow, I've got over sixty reviews for this little story. Thank you so much to those of you who have read the story, added it to your favourites or story alert, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave me a review. I love each and every one and promise to try and get back to you if you leave one.<em>**

**_So here's chapter fifteen, please enjoy._**

**_Warnings for John being a bit silly in this chapter. I personally choose to think it's cute._**

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft woke slowly and found his head thumped, his body ached, and his stomach squirmed. There was a horrible taste in his mouth and as he sat he realised he'd thrown up at some point in the night.<em>

_Feeling horrible, disgusting, and annoyed at himself, Mycroft went to the bathroom to have a long, hot shower. He threw the duvet out, not bothering to have it washed. He couldn't stand to look at it; it brought up memories of a night fuelled by cocaine, alcohol and meaningless sex in a strange pub toilet._

_Mycroft sighed and scratched at his face, his hair, his arms. He hated it, everything, including himself. He fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering if he would _ever _feel okay. Sherlock had John, he didn't need Mycroft._

_Who did Mycroft have?_

_Himself._

_And even he was upset with that choice._

* * *

><p>Mycroft woke slowly and jolted when he felt a warm arm around his. He remembered the previous night and a grin broke out over his face. Mycroft's head felt clearer then it had in days and his stomach was full of food and a nice happy feeling. There was no darkness, no anger, no need to fling himself from a window. There was just... warmth.<p>

Mycroft's body twinged a bit as he rolled over to look at Greg. The DI yawned and opened his eyes slowly, his hair spiked up and his lips dry.

'Hello,' Greg smiled.

Mycroft grinned. 'Good morning.'

Greg leaned forward first, placing a soft kiss against his boyfriend's lips. Mycroft pulled him closer under the covers and soon they were pressed hard against each other, body's warming up quickly.

Mycroft pulled back to catch his breath and grinned.

'What?' Greg asked.

'I can't believe you're here,' Mycroft murmured.

'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Because I'm not good enough for you.'

Greg blinked. 'What?'

'I'm not good enough for you,' Mycroft repeated.

'Mycroft, why would you even say that?'

Mycroft looked up at Greg. The DI was frowning. 'It's the truth.'

'No it's not.'

Mycroft sighed. 'It is, Gregory. I... you deserve better than me.'

Greg grabbed Mycroft and pulled him in for a bruising kiss. When the broke apart Greg said, 'Don't you ever say those things again, Mycroft Holmes. You are perfect for me, I don't deserve anything other than you, got it?'

Mycroft blinked.

'Do you get it, Mycroft?' Greg demanded. 'I care about you, for all your abilities and faults. I'm not going anywhere and I will _not _have you thinking I'm somehow better than you. Now. Do. You. Get. It?'

Mycroft swallowed before nodding. Greg grabbed him and they shared another hot kiss.

'Good,' Greg said. He then pulled the duvet up and looked under it, eyes roaming over Mycroft's body.

'What are you doing?' Mycroft asked, having found his voice again.

'Just appreciating an amazing view,' Greg said and Mycroft snorted.

'I don't think you should enjoy it alone,' he said and grabbed the blanket to look at Greg.

'Enjoying yourself?' Greg asked a minute later when Mycroft had failed to drop the blanket.

'Oh yes,' the politician said, eyes locking onto Greg's crotch. 'Yes... yes; very nice.'

Greg chuckled and pushed Mycroft back to straddle his hips, feeling Mycroft's half-hard cock rub against his own.

'What are you doing?' Mycroft asked with a smile, running his hands up and down Greg's arms.

'Admiring the view is good and all,' Greg said and kissed Mycroft softly. 'But I prefer to get actively involved. Why look at the mountain when you can climb it?'

Mycroft's smile broadened and he kissed Greg hotly, tongue dashing along the DI's lips and teeth biting his bottom lip. Soon both were hard and Greg groped for the condoms and lube, finally finding them and leaning back.

Mycroft watched as Greg ripped open a foil packet and rolled the condom onto his cock.

'Oh, so I'm a top this morning?' Mycroft asked as Greg squeezed lube onto his fingers.

'Technically you're still below me,' Greg said as he grabbed Mycroft's cock. The politician gasped as his boyfriend stroked him, quickly getting his shaft slick enough. 'But yes, this morning you're a top.'

Mycroft smiled as Greg dropped the lube and shifted beneath the sheets. His hands were warm and wet on Mycroft's shoulders as he lifted himself up. Mycroft used his own hands to position his cock at Greg's opening and, after exchanging a smile with Greg, pushed up.

He entered his older lover swiftly and Greg dropped completely, skin hot against Mycroft's.

'Oh God,' Mycroft groaned and wrapped his arms around Greg.

Greg grinned and kissed him quickly, tongues and lips and teeth all sloppy and loud. They broke apart when the door open, Greg turning quickly. Mycroft looked over Greg's shoulder to see John Watson.

'Oh!' John shouted and took a step back. 'Oh, God, I'm sorry. I-I wanted to see if M-Mycroft was okay...' he trailed off and looked away, face flushed.

'I'm fine thank you, John,' Mycroft said and pulled Greg closer. Greg swallowed.

'Right, right, okay,' John nodded and turned to look at them, trying to ignore the fact that they were both naked and Greg was _sitting _on Mycroft. All three thanked God the couple still had the sheets over their lower halves. 'So...'

'Could you please give us a minute?' Mycroft asked.

'Right, 'course,' John nodded and took a step back. 'Erm, can I ask you something?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Yes?'

'I suppose you two didn't sleep together?'

Greg threw a pillow and John chuckled, shutting the door as he left.

'Did it work?' Sherlock asked.

John grinned, remembering Sherlock keeping him out all night in the hope Greg and Mycroft would pull their heads out of their arses and enjoy a good shag.

'Yes,' John nodded, grinning at his husband. 'Yes, it worked.'

Sherlock smiled.

'But they took our lube.'

'What?' Sherlock demanded and made for the door.

'No!' John said and pulled him back. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock dragged him down the hallway. 'Leave 'em alone.'

'But _John_,' Sherlock whined.

John placed a kiss against his lips. 'Later.'

Sherlock sighed but allowed John to steer him away from Mycroft's room.

-oOo-

Greg groaned and let his head fall against Mycroft's chest. 'That was so embarrassing.'

'Hmm,' Mycroft murmured and pushed up.

Greg gasped. 'Mycroft!'

'Yes?'

'You can't be serious.'

Mycroft thrust up again. 'Why not?'

'The door's unlocked.'

'It's always unlocked, you broke it. Are you going to pay to have it fixed?'

Greg rolled his eyes. 'Sherlock and John are out there; they know what we're doing.'

'Yes, they do,' Mycroft said. He dropped a hand to grip Greg's cock.

'We... we shouldn't,' Greg mumbled, eyes closing slightly.

'As you just said,' Mycroft said slowly, thrusting and pulling, 'my brother and his husband are out there and they do in fact know that we are in here having sex. So, why should we stop having sex? They already think we are; we might as well continue.'

Greg had stopped listening at, 'As you just said.' He pulled himself up and dropped back down, cock sliding through Mycroft's hand quickly. The politician groaned as Greg continued moving, Mycroft's own thrusts adding to the heat and passion. Greg's lips connected with Mycroft's and they licked into each other's mouths, tasting sweat and heat and each other.

Greg came ten minutes later, shouting loudly and shuddering against Mycroft. He continued moving until he brought Mycroft to climax, the politician moaning and dropping his head against Greg's chest.

They sat together, breathing deeply and holding each other. Greg's lips found Mycroft's and they exchanged slow, lazy kisses.

'So...' Mycroft asked a few minutes later. 'Are you up for another round?'

Greg chuckled and kissed him again.

-oOo-

They managed to make it out of bed by nine, Mycroft having decided for Greg that the DI was going to be late for work. They found Sherlock and John at the kitchen table, the doctor munching on toast and Sherlock playing with his skull.

Mycroft and Greg paused when Sherlock and John looked at them. John was grinning stupidly and Sherlock's eyes narrowed, first on his brother then on his friend.

Mycroft cleared his throat and said, 'Gregory, would you like some coffee?'

'Ah... sure,' Greg nodded. Mycroft went into the kitchen and kept his back to them as he made coffee. Greg fidgeted for a minute before joining Sherlock and John at the table.

John smiled. 'So... how are you, Greg?'

'Fine,' the DI said.

'Hmm, that's good,' John nodded. 'Did you sleep well?'

'Fine,' the DI repeated.

'Good, that's good,' John said and grinned. Greg rolled his eyes. Sherlock stood suddenly and both Greg and John watched him approach his brother. 'Okay, give us some details.'

'What are you, fifteen?' Greg asked.

'Yes,' John said. 'So come on, what's he like in bed?'

'John!'

'What?' the doctor smiled. 'I'm not asking for his moves.'

'You're worse than Donovan.'

'I'll take that as a compliment.'

'It wasn't one.'

'I'll take it as one anyway. So... was it good?'

Greg sighed again but a smile pulled at his lips as he remembered the previous night. 'Yeah,' he said and looked up to see John grinning. 'Yeah, he's... it was great.'

'I'm glad,' John said. 'Are you two together now?'

'Yes.'

'Finally,' John said. 'You know Sherlock and I tried to tell Mycroft he was in love with you but he kept denying it.'

'You knew he liked me?' Greg demanded.

'Well,' John backtracked quickly, '_knew_ is a strong word... _guessed_ or _had suspicions _is what I'd use.' Greg glared at him. 'Oh come on, it's not like Mycroft was ever going to tell us. And I couldn't reveal you loved him without knowing how he felt first. So Sherlock and I stayed out all night in the hope–'

'Wait, wait, wait,' Greg cut him off. 'You purposely stayed out so we'd spend the night here?'

John coughed. 'Erm, well... more like _hoped _you'd spend the night here.'

'You planned this.'

'Maybe,' John said and Greg's frowned deepened. 'Look, it all worked out, what are you complaining about? Mycroft finally knows how you feel, you're together, and you had a good shag. Seriously, what's the matter?'

Greg opened his mouth to fight back but couldn't think of anything. John was right. So what if he and Sherlock had tricked him into having dinner with Mycroft? Hadn't it all worked out? He and Mycroft had made out for a good half-an-hour before moving things to the bedroom. They'd have very good sex, twice, and had practically declared their love for each other. They were, finally, together.

So what was Greg complaining about?

'I still don't like that you tricked us,' Greg finally grumbled.

John chuckled. 'Stop being a girl.'

Greg glared at him and John just grinned.

In the kitchen Sherlock stood beside his brother. 'So,' he said slowly as Mycroft worked the expensive coffee machine. 'You _don't _like Gregory?'

Mycroft sighed.

'I mean, it just seems a little weird to spend the night with someone if you don't like them,' Sherlock continued.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft sighed.

'And the morning.'

'Brother, please.'

'Two rounds of sex, at least an hour of making out,' Sherlock said, ignoring Mycroft completely, 'as well as spending the night spooning... seems a little much if you _don't _like him.'

'Yes, Sherlock, I get it.'

Sherlock smirked and folded his arms, leaning back against the counter. He could see John talking quickly and Greg scowling.

'Are you finally admitting that you like him?' Sherlock asked and Mycroft glared at him. 'Well?'

'Yes, okay, are you happy? I love Gregory.'

'Love?'

'Yes.'

'Have you told him that?'

'We only just got together, Sherlock,' Mycroft said and pulled two mugs from the cupboard above his head. 'I hardly think now is the time to declare my love for him.'

'I think it's the perfect time.'

'We haven't known each other long enough.'

'So?'

Mycroft looked at his brother. 'Oh I see, are you a love expert now?'

'Out of the two of us, yes,' Sherlock said. 'Mycroft, I took my time telling John how I felt. If I'd just been honest with him, and myself, we'd have been married long ago. We'd be enjoying two years as a couple rather than one. Are you going to wait that long?'

'I've known Gregory personally about a month, Sherlock,' Mycroft said. 'I think jumping into bed together is moving rather quickly. Can I not wait an entire two months before proposing?'

'So you want to marry him?'

Mycroft sighed; Sherlock was giving him a headache. 'Now I remember why I went to university so young.'

Sherlock grinned. 'Am I annoying you, Mycroft?'

'I thought you were here to help me.'

'I am,' Sherlock nodded. 'Annoying you is just a bonus.'

Mycroft sighed and grabbed the coffees. 'Enough, Sherlock.'

'Just tell him,' Sherlock said and followed his brother back to the table. John and Greg were bickering but stopped when the Holmes brothers sat down. Greg grinned at Mycroft and accepted his mug.

'Go on, give him a kiss,' John said.

Greg shot John a glare that melted when Mycroft grabbed his chin. Smiling, Mycroft planted a soft, sweet kiss against his lips. Greg blinked when Mycroft pulled away and felt heat climb up his neck.

'Ah, so cute,' John said.

'Seriously, John, I'm gonna arrest you.'

'For what?'

'Being an annoying sod!' Greg glared at him.

John grinned. 'Well I'm sorry but you two have been dancing around each other for weeks. You're finally together, can't I be happy for my brother-in-law?'

'Go be happy in another room,' Greg grunted.

'Please don't have sex on the table,' Sherlock said and began picking at John's leftover toast.

'It's my table, I'll do what I want on it!' Mycroft snarled as Greg blushed harder.

'Mycroft, would you like some toast?' John asked, deciding the elder Holmes looked practically murderous.

'I'm fine.'

'Mycroft, please,' John said.

Mycroft shook his head. 'I'm not hungry–' He cut himself off when Greg placed a hand on his arm.

'Mycroft,' the DI said seriously, 'you need to have something to eat.'

By now Mycroft was used to the three of them telling him what to do. Sherlock always shouted that Mycroft needed food. John asked him in that warm, pleasing doctor voice. Greg... Greg made it clear that not eating wasn't an option. Mycroft _would _have something for breakfast or there'd be hell to play.

'Fine,' Mycroft sighed. 'Toast is fine.'

John grinned and Sherlock raised his eyebrows as Greg nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'Toast for me too, John, since you're offering.'

'What am I, the bloody chief?' John grumbled as he went to make more toast.

'Interesting,' Sherlock said, eyes darting between Greg and Mycroft.

'What is?' Greg asked, shifting his seat to lean against Mycroft. He put an arm around him and squeezed his shoulder. Sherlock just shrugged and went to join his husband in the kitchen. 'Thank you,' Greg whispered.

'Not a problem,' Mycroft smiled. He found that he didn't mind eating when Greg asked him. It was... it was nice having someone like Greg who cared. Sherlock and John were family, Greg was... Greg was Mycroft's.

Greg smiled and gave his boyfriend a soft kiss.

-oOo-

Much to Greg's, and Mycroft's, annoyance, the DI had a job to get to. Mycroft wished he could fill his hours with paperwork and meetings but John still refused to give him a clean bill of health.

Not caring that his brother and brother-in-law were in the room, Mycroft hauled Greg in for a nice, long snog at the front door. Greg pushed his body against Mycroft's and kissed back heatedly, fingers running through Mycroft's hair and crotches pushing together.

Mycroft moaned into his mouth and his tongue darted against the DI's, warm and wet strokes being exchanged.

'Take it elsewhere!' Sherlock shouted, the last word muffled when John clamped a hand over his mouth.

'Leave them alone,' he hissed and made Sherlock sit on the couch to give Mycroft and Greg a little privacy.

'Gotta... go... work...' Greg mumbled against his boyfriend's lips.

'Take the day off,' Mycroft breathed, peppering kisses along Greg's jaw.

'I wish I could,' Greg swallowed, eyes closing as Mycroft sucked back on the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

They kissed again for a minute before Greg managed to untangle himself from Mycroft. He pulled the door open and grabbed his boyfriend again.

'Dinner?'

'Most definitely,' Mycroft said and kissed him softly. 'I miss you already.'

'Me too,' Greg smiled. He looked over Mycroft's shoulder to see John and Sherlock peeking at them from the couch. 'I'll see you both later.'

'Oh, Gregory, are you still here?' Sherlock asked in surprise. 'I thought you'd gone to work about four hours ago.'

John elbowed him. 'Bye, Greg.'

Greg rolled his eyes and gave Mycroft another kiss. 'Call me if you need anything.'

'I'll be fine, Gregory.'

'Still, if you want to you can,' Greg said and blushed slightly. He kissed Mycroft quickly before heading off.

Mycroft sighed and leaned against the door. His fingers came up to brush along his lips; he could still taste and feel Gregory. A smile crept up his face and he turned to see John and Sherlock grinning at him.

'Shut up!' he snapped and stormed to his room.

John giggled and Sherlock smiled.


	16. Happy

**Chapter Sixteen: Happy**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: The newest episode of Sherlock? BRILLIANT! My deepest thanks to the genius of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Also a big thanks to <strong>_**Kitten-Kath **_**and **_**chasingriver **_**for showing me links to where I could watch the entire episode. I am forever in both your debts!**_

_**I apologise if this chapter has mistakes. I wrote most of it after having five beers at one am in the morning. Not the best idea to write while tipsy but it's damn good fun.**_

_**Also, there's some French, German and Italian in this. The English translations are written underneath in brackets; [].**_

_**Cheers!**_

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft sat on his bed trying to keep the anger and hurt back. He'd hated seeing Mummy that distraught. God he really hated Sherlock sometimes. What was his little brother thinking, going and outing Mycroft like that at Christmas dinner? Mummy already had a hard enough time accepting Mycroft for who he was. Adding gay on top of it just made things so much more difficult.<em>

_There was a knock on the door and Mycroft blinked, looking up. 'Mother?'_

_Camille Holmes smiled at her son as she entered the room. 'My, you disappeared during dinner.'_

_Mycroft looked down. 'Yes, well... I didn't like the way the family was staring at me.'_

'_Oh ignore them, dear, they're prats.'_

_Mycroft's eyes snapped to his mother. She smiled._

'_My, dear, I don't care that you're gay.'_

'_You... you don't?'_

'_Of course not,' Cam said and sat down beside her eldest son. 'It was a shock, of course, but I've calmed down now. I don't want you to ever have to lie to me, Mycroft. I want you to be happy.'_

_Mycroft nodded but felt anger grip his stomach. He was never happy._

'_Father would disagree.'_

_Cam sighed. 'Darling, your father... he doesn't understand you like I do.'_

'_I never meant to disappoint him–'_

'_You listen to me right now,' Cam cut him off. She took his face in her hands and stroked her thumbs along his pale skin._

'_You, Mycroft Edwin Holmes, could never, _ever _disappoint anyone, do you understand? Your father has his faults, dear, and he doesn't understand you like I do. I've spoken to Sherlock and he understands that your father doesn't need to know about your sexuality. I don't want you to have to hide it, My, but your dad...' she sighed and trailed off._

'_I know, Mummy.'_

_Cam smiled and kissed his forehead. 'Are you okay now, dear?'_

_Mycroft nodded and tried to ignore the pain bubbling in his stomach. 'Of course, Mother.'_

_Cam stood and went to the door. She paused and turned to look at him. 'I just want you to be happy, My. As long as you're happy that's all that matters.'_

_Mycroft nodded and forced a smile. His mother smiled back and disappeared, shutting the door softly. The smile fell quickly and anger reared its ugly head. Mycroft sighed and fell back onto the bed._

_He really wished he could be happy._

_But he didn't know how to make it happen._

* * *

><p>Mycroft opened the front door at one to find Greg Lestrade standing there. John was at work but Sherlock was on the couch in his dressing gown, brooding about the lack of interesting cases Scotland Yard had.<p>

Regardless of his little brother being present, Mycroft dragged Greg forward and planted a hot, wet kiss against his lips. Greg groaned and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck, pressing his body up against the elder Holmes'.

'God, you have no idea how much I missed this,' Greg moaned.

'I think I can guess,' Mycroft mumbled. It was the truth; he'd spent the past four hours thinking about exactly what he'd do when he had Greg Lestrade in his arms. Mycroft had never been so happy. He had to try hard to let the feeling take him. He wasn't used to being happy or even okay with the world. But with Greg everything was just _right_.

'I'm sure your neighbours wouldn't appreciate seeing your little show, brother,' Sherlock said dryly from the couch.

'Shut up,' Greg groaned and kicked the door shut.

Mycroft dragged Greg towards his room.

'You're not going to do it now?' Sherlock demanded, sitting up to glare at his brother.

'Yes, we are,' Mycroft responded.

'Urgh,' Sherlock murmured. 'Mycroft, I expect a refund on those condoms and lube.'

Mycroft ignored him and pulled Greg down the hallway. He slammed his bedroom door shut and pushed Greg up against it, immediately stripping the man of his coat and jacket.

'God,' Greg groaned, hands pushing into Mycroft's hair.

'I'm flattered you think me so powerful,' Mycroft commented as he started on Greg's buttons. When his shirt was free Greg thought it was totally unfair that Mycroft still had his clothes on. Unfortunately Mycroft didn't seem to see Greg's way of thinking and quickly dropped to his knees to pull at Greg's belt.

Okay, maybe it wasn't completely unfair, Greg thought as Mycroft's lips wrapped around his cock. The politician bobbed back and forth, his warm, wet mouth encasing Greg completely. The DI groaned and pulled at Mycroft's hair as his boyfriend sucked back on his cock, tongue lapping at his head.

'Oh... M-Myc...'

Mycroft smiled and sucked back even harder.

'Gonna... oh FUCK!'

He came suddenly, shooting his seed down Mycroft's throat. His fingers tightened in his boyfriend's hair as he thrust forward half-heartedly, riding out his climax as long as he could.

Greg's phone buzzed and he groaned, reaching into his pocket to pull it out. Mycroft licked him clean as Greg read the new text.

_I'm leaving for an hour. I'd come tell you but I guessed you were rather busy with my brother. Please don't leave until I return._

_SH_

'Your brother's gone,' Greg commented as he dropped his phone.

Mycroft smiled up at him. 'Oh really?'

'Yes.'

Mycroft dragged Greg down so he was straddling the older man's hips.

'God, you'll be the death of me,' Greg said as Mycroft attacked his lips, tongue forcing its way into his mouth.

'Mm,' Mycroft murmured, licking his way around Greg's mouth and groaning at the taste. He moved to relieve Greg of his shoes, socks and pants, staring at the mostly naked DI afterwards.

'So, what do you plan on doing with me?' Greg asked, raising his eyebrows.

Mycroft smiled. 'I plan on fucking you into another climax.'

'Oh really?' Greg asked as his underwear was pulled free. 'Well, you'd better get started.'

Mycroft grinned and shed his own clothes before getting the condoms and lube. He rolled one onto Greg's cock and slicked him up.

'You don't want to be prepared?' Greg asked as Mycroft straddled him.

His answer was Mycroft sliding down onto his half-hard cock, the DI groaning as his boyfriend squeezed around him.

'Fuck, Mycroft.'

'I do love hearing you say that,' Mycroft smiled as he pulled himself up. They fell into a quick rhythm, Greg getting harder and harder inside Mycroft. The DI moaned as he started pushing up, Mycroft bouncing on him.

Mycroft's hands spread out along Greg's stomach and he dug his nails into the soft flesh as Greg's cock hit his prostate.

'God, Gregory, Gregory, Gregory...' He continued moaning his partner's name as their pace quickened, Greg gripping Mycroft's hips.

It was all over when Greg grabbed Mycroft's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts and Mycroft's movements. The politician managed to hold out for a few minutes before he was coming, leaking all over Greg's stomach and hand. He shuddered and shouted, body tensing and slowing as he continued to ride Greg.

The DI moaned softly before, with another jerk of Mycroft's cock, he came again, pushing up hard as Mycroft squeezed around him. Both panted and stared at each other as they slowly came down from the high they'd given each other.

Mycroft managed to slide off and rolled onto the floor beside Greg, body hot and heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

'Best lunch ever,' Greg said as he got his breath back.

Mycroft chuckled. 'I'm inclined to agree.'

-oOo-

After cleaning themselves up and getting dressed, they went into the kitchen to get lunch. Greg made two sandwiches and, much to Greg's joy, Mycroft ate all of his while smiling at Greg.

The politician had never felt this happy before. Every minute with Greg was better than the last and it spread a warmth and happiness through him that he'd never felt before. He couldn't believe how happy Greg made him. Sherlock being with John, the darkness, the hurt, nothing mattered while Greg was with him. It was like the DI pushed everything else back and filled Mycroft with... _happiness._

They sat on the couch together where, after flicking on the TV, Greg proceeded to push Mycroft onto his back and settle himself along him.

'Hello,' Mycroft grinned as Greg kissed his jaw.

'Mmf,' Greg mumbled as he worked his way up to Mycroft's lips. He caught them quickly and softly, kissing Mycroft as slow and long as he could.

Mycroft moaned against him, pushing his crotch up as he sucked on Greg's tongue, never tiring of the taste and feel.

'Never leave,' Mycroft grunted against him.

'I won't,' Greg promised, tongue entering Mycroft's mouth and twirling about.

They were so engrossed in each other that they didn't hear the door open. Neither was aware they had company until someone cleared their throat. Greg looked up to see Sherlock and John, both smirking at the situation before them.

Greg quickly sat up and wiped at his mouth, aware his lips were red and swollen from kissing. Mycroft looked no better and tried to flatten his hair as he glared at his brother.

'Can we help you?'

'Really, the couch, Mycroft?' Sherlock said. 'Aren't you a bit old to be caught snogging in the living room?'

Mycroft scowled. 'Aren't you a bit old to be watching your brother make out with his boyfriend?'

'I wouldn't be watching if you'd take it elsewhere.'

Mycroft stood and said, 'Excellent idea.' He grabbed Greg and hauled the DI to his feet before tugging him towards the bedroom.

'Nice seeing you!' Greg called to Sherlock and John as he entered the hallway. John chuckled and waved.

-oOo-

'Jesus Fuck!' Greg shouted as he came for the third time that day, cock leaking against his stomach as Mycroft continued to push. 'God, Mycroft, more please. More, more, more!'

Mycroft complied, pushing in as hard and fast as he could. A few short breaths later, and after a lot of grunting and swearing, Mycroft finally came. He moaned loudly and pressed his lips against Greg's, forcing the DI harder into the mattress.

'God, I'm completely fucked,' Greg commented as Mycroft pulled out. The politician knelt before him, panting heavily and smiling. 'I haven't had sex that many times in... years.'

'Yes, well...' he managed before wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead.

'Towel's on the floor,' Greg said. 'If you haven't moved it.'

Mycroft smiled as he slipped off the bed. He grabbed the towel and, after peeling the condom off and throwing in the bin, cleaned himself and Greg up. He climbed under the covers and pulled Greg close to plant soft kisses against his cheek.

'What time do you have to get back to work?'

'Sod work.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'So you're staying here indefinitely?'

'Yes. Do you have a problem with that?'

Mycroft smiled and pulled Greg over so they were face to face. 'No, I most definitely do not.'

Mycroft's BlackBerry buzzed and he groaned.

'Ignore it.'

'It could be work.'

'You're on sick leave,' Greg reminded him. 'So it's Sherlock.' Greg's phone rang from the floor and Greg smiled. 'See? It's Sherlock.'

'I should get it,' Mycroft said when his BlackBerry buzzed again.

'Nope,' Greg said and pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's thin frame. 'You're staying right here.'

Mycroft chuckled and kissed Greg slowly. Once again his BlackBerry killed the mood and Mycroft groaned

'Leave it,' Greg begged.

Mycroft reached for his BlackBerry just as his bedroom door burst open.

'Mother?' Mycroft gasped as Mummy Holmes appeared in the doorway. Her eyes went wide as Mycroft drew the duvet up over his naked chest, face flushing and breath quickening.

'My,' Camille Holmes managed, smiling when she spotted Greg. 'Hello there, I'm Mycroft's mother, Camille Holmes.'

'Hello,' Greg said, looking down at the bed. 'Greg Lestrade.'

'Gregory, wonderful to meet you,' Cam smiled.

Greg wondered if anyone in the Holmes family was ever going to call him Greg. 'Erm... nice-nice to meet you too.'

'My, are you going to join your mother for a cup of tea?'

'I will if you leave right now,' Mycroft said, sounding desperate.

Cam grinned. 'Of course, dear. Have fun.' She left quickly and Mycroft groaned loudly as he grabbed his BlackBerry.

_Mummy is coming for a visit. I tried to fend her off but she's rather admit on seeing you._

_SH._

**_Mummy is almost here, get out of bed and make sure you and Lestrade are dressed._**

**_SH_**

_Mycroft, Mummy knows you tried to kill yourself and she's furious. She's almost here, GET DRESSED!_

_SH_

Mycroft sighed. 'Sherlock tried to warn me.'

Greg had read the texts over his shoulder and smiled before showing Mycroft his own phone.

_GET OUT OF BED NOW! MY MOTHER IS ON HER WAY AND SHE WILL INSIST ON INTEROGATING YOU BECAUSE YOU'RE DATING MYCROFT! I'M TELLING YOU, LESTRADE, MOVE NOW!_

_SH_

Mycroft groaned and buried his face in Greg's chest. The DI chuckled and dropped his phone to press soft kisses against his boyfriend's lips.

-oOo-

They dressed again and Greg messaged Donovan to say he was running late. They exited the hallway to find John and Cam chatting heatedly, Sherlock lounging on the couch. His eyes snapped to his brother and Greg and he smirked.

Mycroft scowled but it melted away when his mother looked at him.

'My, darling, how could you do something so stupid?' Cam got up quickly and threw her arms around her eldest son, pulling him in for a back-breaking hug.

'Hello, Mother,' Mycroft managed and breathed deeply when his mother let him go.

'What was going through your head?' Cam demanded.

'Erm... pardon?'

Cam scowled. 'What was going through your head when you decided that killing yourself was okay? Did you not realise how much it would hurt me? Or Sherlock? Or John? Or even Gregory?'

'I didn't know Gregory then,' Mycroft said, shifting from foot to foot. He suddenly looked like a lost little boy

'Well I'm glad you have him now,' Cam said and turned her attention to Greg. 'Come, Gregory, sit down and tell me all about yourself.'

Greg was dragged to the table and he had to sit and sip tea as Mrs Holmes interrogated him about his life.

'What's your full name?' Mrs Holmes asked.

'Gregory Johnathan Lestrade.'

'French?'

'Yes, my father was born in France.'

'His name?'

'Grégoire. I was named after him but they decided Gregory would be better.'

'Do you speak French?'

'No, Dad didn't really do anything other than swear in French.'

'My speaks French.'

'Does he?'

'And German.'

'Mother,' Mycroft sighed.

'What other languages, My?' Cam asked her son.

Greg looked up to see Mycroft scowling. 'French, German, Japanese, Mandarin, Italian, Spanish–'

'Posh,' Sherlock interjected.

'Sherlock,' Mrs Holmes and John scowled at the same time.

'Sherly only ever managed French and Italian,' Cam smiled. 'He and My used to tease each other in French.'

'Vas-tu dire à Gregory que tu l'aimes ?' Sherlock said, as though trying to prove that he could, in fact, speak French. He popped up to look at Mycroft over the couch, ignoring the stunned faces of Greg and John.

_['Are you going to tell Gregory you love him?']_

Mycroft scowled at his brother. 'Non, je ne vais pas le faire. Pas encore.'

_['No, I'm not. Not yet.']_

Sherlock cocked his head to one side as Greg and John looked from one to the other, Mrs Holmes smiling.

'Pourquoi?' the younger Holmes asked.

_['Why?']_

Mycroft glanced at their mother before saying, 'Te rends-tu compte que maman sait un peu parler français ?'

_['Do you realise Mummy can speak some French?']_

Sherlock smirked before speaking again, this time in another language.

'Hai intenzione di dire a Gregory che lo ami?'  
><em> ['Are you going to tell Gregory you love him?']<em>

'Italian,' Mrs Holmes told Greg and John, who both looked thoroughly lost.

'Di che utilità è passare all'italiano?' Mycroft asked.

_['How is switching to Italian going to help now?']_

'Nessuna, ma forse mi risponderai,' Sherlock said with a shrug.

_['It won't but maybe you'll answer me.']_

'Più tardi, Sherlock,' Mycroft said, standing to get another cup of coffee.

_['Later, Sherlock.']_

'Dici sempre così,' Sherlock said in a grumbling tone.

_['You always say that.']_

'Più tardi,' Mycroft said in a way that closed the matter completely.

_['Later.']_

Sherlock scowled and fell back onto the couch to once more play with his skull. Greg and John exchanged looks; neither had known the Holmes brothers sounded that... well, that _good _when speaking in other languages.

'That was... interesting,' Greg managed, eyeing Mycroft where the elder Holmes was making coffee. He wanted to grab the man and fuck him 'til he started speaking French again.

'Do you have any siblings?' Mrs Holmes asked.

Greg pulled his eyes away from Mycroft and tried not to blush. 'Er, two brothers; Adam and Blair.'

'And what do they do?'

Mycroft sighed, John grinned, and Sherlock continued to stroke his skull.

'Adam's a lawyer and Blair's an electrician.'

'Ah, I see,' Mrs Holmes nodded, as though she approved of Greg's brothers' choice in work. 'And what do you do?'

'I'm a police officer,' Greg said as Mycroft sat at the table again.

'Elle va poser des questions sur sa sexualité maintenant,' Sherlock said from the couch, now throwing the skull above his head. Mycroft rather hoped he'd knock himself out.

_['She's going to ask about his sexuality now.']_

'Sherlock, s'il te plait,' Mycroft replied.

_['Sherlock, please.']_

'J'ai essayé de t'avertir, mon frère,' Sherlock said with a shrug. 'Ne dis jamais que je n'ai pas essayé de t'avertir.'

_['I did try to warn you, brother. Don't ever say I didn't try to warn you.']_

'Gregory is a detective inspector with Scotland Yard,' Mycroft said, ignoring his brother and sipping his coffee.

'How marvellous,' Cam nodded and Greg could see where Mycroft got his charm. 'So, Gregory, have you always liked men?'

Greg choked on his tea and Mycroft moaned. 'Mummy, please.'

'Je te l'avais dit,' Sherlock muttered from the couch.

_['I told you so.']_

'What?' Cam said, smiling over her mug. 'Am I not allowed to ask my eldest son's boyfriend if he's always preferred men?'

'No, you're not,' Mycroft scowled.

Cam just smiled pleasantly and turned her pale-blue eyes on Greg once more.

'Erm... yeah, I... I have...' the DI managed, drowning himself in his cup.

John chuckled. 'She asked me the same thing,' he said.

'John likes both genders, like Sherlock,' Cam said and placed her mug on the table. 'But I see you are like My.'

Greg managed a nod before once more diverting his attention to the table.

'So, Gregory...' Cam began and Mycroft stifled a groan. John shot Greg a sympathetic look as Cam continued, 'how long have you and My been dating?'

'Er...' Greg began, glancing at his boyfriend. 'Erm... two days.'

'Really?' Cam said and Greg nodded. 'And you're already sleeping together?'

Mycroft groaned and rested his face in his hands.

'How long have you known each other?' Cam asked.

Greg really didn't want to answer but nobody was jumping in to help him. Sherlock was snickering on the couch, long fingers stroking the creamy coloured skull on his chest. John was just glad he wasn't getting the third degree and was delighted to sit back and watch Greg crumble. Mycroft was more than happy to sit with his face against the table.

'Um... a little over a month.' He paled at Cam's gaze and said, 'I've known _of _him longer,' he continued, 'I've known Sherlock six years and he's spoken of Mycroft. But it's only recently that we got to know each other and... erm... well, we've grown close... and... um...' He trailed off and sipped from his cup, trying to ignore the fact that everybody was looking at him.

'I see,' Mummy Holmes said slowly, eyes narrowing.

'Sherlock, un piccolo aiuto?' Mycroft said suddenly, lifting his head to look at his brother.

_['Sherlock, a little help?']_

'Ignore them,' Cam said as she continued to stare at Greg.

'Oh, adesso chiedi aiuto?' Sherlock asked, sitting up and dropping his skull.

_['Oh, are you actually asking for help now?]_

Mycroft sighed and said, 'Per favore, fratello, ti prego.'

_['Please, brother, I'm begging you.']_

Sherlock smiled. 'Immagino di poter simulare una finta chiamata da Scotland Yard e far richamare Lestrade.' He paused before continuing, 'Ma questo ti lascerà con mamma.'

_['I suppose I could fake a call from Scotland Yard and have Lestrade whisked away. But that will leave you with Mummy.']_

Mycroft nodded quickly. 'D'accordo, almeno tiralo fuori di qui.'

_['Fine, just get him out of here.']_

'Mi aspetto qualcosa in cambio per questo, Mycroft,' Sherlock grinned, texting behind the couch.

_['I expect something in return for this, Mycroft.']_

'Ich schwöre, eines Tages werde ich wahnsinnig und erschieße dich!' Mycroft spat in German, which none of them understood.

_['I swear one of these days I'm going to go insane and shoot you!']_

John was looking from his husband to brother-in-law as Mrs Holmes continued to stare Greg down. The DI was fiddling with his cup and hoping to God that the ground would open up and swallow him.

Greg's phone beeped and he nearly shouted in relief. 'Sorry, I have to get that; it could be a murder,' he said to Mrs Holmes as he pulled it from his pocket.

_Pretend I'm Donovan or someone else annoying. Mycroft apologises, I'm sure, for Mummy's interrogation. Get out now while you can but she'll still rope you in to dinner. So I'll see you later._

_SH_

Greg made sure not to look at Sherlock as he cleared his throat. 'Erm, I gotta get back to work; murders and paperwork, you know.'

Mycroft nodded quickly and stood. 'I'll see you out.'

'Sure,' Greg said and looked at Cam. 'It was lovely meeting you, Mrs Holmes.'

'Lovely meeting you too,' Cam smiled and held out her hand for Greg to shake. 'I'm sure we can talk more over dinner.'

Greg risked a glance at Sherlock to see the consulting detective grinning. 'Erm, yes, of course,' Greg said and went for the door.

'I'm so sorry,' Mycroft whispered once he'd got Greg outside. 'I had no idea she'd come for a visit. I'm going to murder Sherlock.'

'S'fine,' Greg shrugged. 'She's just worried about you.'

'She asked you about your sexuality,' Mycroft groaned. 'And your parents, your job... soon she'll ask you about our sex life.'

Greg smiled and pulled Mycroft in for a hug. 'Mycroft, it's fine.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

Mycroft smiled and pressed a kiss to Greg's lips. 'I'm still sorry. I'm far too much trouble.'

'Well, you can speak French and Italian and...'

'German, Japanese, Mandarin, Swedish–'

'I get it,' Greg cut him off with another kiss. 'You speak four hundred languages, look damn fine in a suit, have more power than God and make me so goddamn horny I don't know what to do with myself.' Mycroft blushed. 'That makes up for you having a weird mother.'

'Good,' Mycroft said and kissed Greg softly. 'I better get back, she'll start with Sherlock soon.'

As if to answer him, Sherlock suddenly shouted, 'Non ti azzardare a lasciarmi qui da solo!'

_['Don't you dare leave me here alone!']_

Greg smiled and kissed Mycroft again. 'I'll see you for dinner.'

'Don't remind me,' Mycroft groaned. He smiled and watched the DI disappear into the elevator.

'MYCROFT!'

With a sigh, Mycroft went back into his flat to deal with his mother.

-oOo-

It was Mycroft's turn to be interrogated. Sherlock made up some excuse about him and John needing 'alone time,' leaving Mycroft sitting at the kitchen table with his mother.

'Gregory seems lovely,' Cam said as she stirred her new cup of tea.

Mycroft tried not to scowl. 'He is.'

'And he's gay?'

'Yes, Mother. Completely.'

'Good, that's good.'

'How?' Mycroft asked.

'You won't have to compete with any young women.'

Mycroft sighed. 'Though I suppose I'll have to compete with young men.'

'Nonsense; Gregory is too old to be going for younger men.'

'I'm younger than him.'

'You know what I mean, My.'

_I wish I did, _Mycroft thought as he sipped his coffee.

'You two are sleeping together already,' Cam said and eyed her son over the table.

'Yes, Mother.'

'May I ask why?'

'When two men love each other they dabble in sexual relations,' Mycroft said, trying very hard not to throw himself across the room and through a window. He really, _really _didn't want to discuss his sex life with his mother.

'It seems a bit sudden, Mycroft.'

'I am aware of that, Mother,' Mycroft said slowly. 'But we do care about each other.'

'Oh, I can see that,' Cam nodded. 'You are obviously in love with the man. And he loves you too.'

'Really?' Mycroft asked. He still couldn't quite believe that Greg was with him. He realised it would take a long, long time for him to accept that Greg liked him too.

'Of course, don't be silly,' Cam tutted. 'But we can discuss that later.'

_Oh goody_, Mycroft thought dryly.

'Sherlock called me and told me some interesting things,' Cam began and Mycroft sighed. He was going to kill Sherlock. 'He mentioned he was staying with you and it took a while but eventually Sherly told me the truth.'

'Whatever he has said is a lie,' Mycroft said.

Cam raised an eyebrow. 'He told me you overdosed on cocaine.' Mycroft squirmed in his seat. 'Is that true?' He managed a nod. 'Mycroft, really. after everything Sherlock went through you decided to go and get hooked on the same drug?'

'In my defence I didn't mean to–'

'Don't try and worm your way out of this, Mycroft Holmes,' Cam scowled. 'You overdosed on purpose.'

'No I didn't.'

'I see. So you, with all your infinite brain power, made a mistake when injecting yourself with cocaine?'

'Y-yes?' Mycroft said weakly.

'Mycroft,' Cam sighed. 'Why wouldn't you ask for help?'

'I don't need help.'

'You are underfed, underappreciated, and completely miserable,' Cam said. 'From what Sherlock has told me you are depressed.'

'I'm really not.'

Cam rolled her eyes. 'You were always so stubborn, Mycroft.'

They lapsed into silence, glancing at each other over the table. It had been a while since the two had had a talk and neither knew quite what to say, especially with the current events. Mycroft played with his cup as his mother looked him over.

'You seem happier than the last time we saw each other,' Cam commented. 'I think that has something to do with Gregory rather than Sherlock and John staying.'

'Sherlock is a nightmare, Mother.'

'He's always been a nightmare,' Cam said and they both smiled. 'But Gregory... he makes you happy?'

Mycroft thought about that. Yes, it was true. Gregory _did _make him happy. Even with his mother's interrogation, Sherlock's behaviour, and John's giggling remarks, Mycroft had never felt better in his life. He attributed it entirely to the presence of Gregory Lestrade.

'Yes, Mother,' Mycroft nodded and couldn't help a smile pulling at his lips. 'He makes me happy.'

Cam grinned. She'd always worried about her eldest son. Where Sherlock enjoyed a lot of things (breaking the law, explosions, keeping body parts in various parts of the kitchen), Mycroft had never really enjoyed anything other than taking care of his little brother.

She had noticed Mycroft's darkening mood at Sherlock's and John's wedding but had tried to tell herself it was just the thought of his younger brother marrying before him that had upset Mycroft. Camille Holmes would never, ever forgive herself for ignoring the danger signs that her son was spiralling out of control.

But in the short time she had been there, Cam had seen how much Mycroft cared about Gregory Lestrade. The DI made her angry, bitter, depressed son happy. She would forever be indebted to the man and made a note to tell him.

'Good,' Mummy Holmes nodded. 'I'm glad.'

Mycroft smiled. 'Really?'

'Of course, My,' Cam said and sipped her tea. 'Now where do you suppose Sherlock is?'

'No doubt hiding in my guest room.'

'Shall I go ask him where he wants to go for dinner?'

Mycroft knew Sherlock and John would be naked by now. The two had spent the night apart and Mycroft _had _stolen their lubricant. No doubt they were making up for lost time.

With a small smile, Mycroft stood. 'I think I'll ask him, Mother.'

Cam chuckled as her eldest son disappeared to annoy Sherlock and John.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Okay, I want to thank <strong>_**franzi1209 and Shizuka-Takubashi** _**for translating the German for me properly, **_**Real or not **_**for translating the French and **_**Karijn **_**for translating the Italian. Without them this chapter would be worthless because Google Translator fails spectacularly.**_


	17. Dinner

**Chapter Seventeen: Dinner**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: If anyone out there speaks Italian and finds that this chapter irritates them beyond belief because Google Translator is an annoying sod, then please feel free to translate the sentences properly.<strong>_

_**Okay, I had to cut this chapter into two because it was way too long. So the second one is called 'Dinner II' and follows straight from this one. Enjoy and I apologise for all the grammer/general mistakes.**_

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft, Sherlock, Camille and Sherrinford sat around the silent dinner table. Mycroft ate slowly, trying not to upset his father. He really wasn't hungry but Sherrinford had been in a particularly foul mood all day. Mycroft deduced it was his mistress; the woman was demanding more of his time.<em>

'_What is the matter with you?' Ford demanded suddenly, glaring at Mycroft from the head of the table._

_Mycroft squeaked and nearly dropped his fork. He swallowed before saying, 'N-nothing, Father.'_

_Ford scowled. 'Don't avoid the question, boy! Tell me what is the matter!'_

_Mycroft really didn't know what his father wanted him to say. Did he want Mycroft to continue acting fine so he'd have an excuse to slap him? Did he want Mycroft to break down and be the crying, sobbing fag Ford always called him? Or did he want the truth? Did he want his eldest son to admit to not being happy or feeling safe and wanting to die so badly just so the pain, the sadness, would end?_

_Everyone was staring at him and Mycroft swallowed. His mother looked worried, his brother curious. Sherlock was always curious; never scared. He didn't have to be, Sherlock had never been beaten by their father. He'd never been slapped around or called a poofter or had his back torn open by a belt buckle. Mycroft would never allow that to happen; he had to protect Sherlock._

'_I...' Mycroft tried before clearing his throat, '... I don't know what you want me to say, Father.'_

_Clearly that wasn't the right answer because Ford scowled. He dropped his cutlery and stood so suddenly Mycroft jumped in his seat._

'_Sherrinford–' Cam began, only to cut herself off with a gasp when Ford lunged for Mycroft. He pulled the seventeen-year-old from his seat, dragging him half across the table before throwing him into the double doors._

_Mycroft bounced off the thick wood but was immediately assaulted again, his dad forcing him through into the next room._

'_Ford, no!' Cam shouted but there was nothing she could do. She grabbed Sherlock's arm as the younger Holmes tried to run after his brother._

'_My!' Sherlock shouted, wanting to protect his brother; help him. 'MY!'_

'_Sherlock, stay back!' Mycroft hissed, trying to push back the tears. He smiled hesitantly; he had to take care of his brother, no matter what._

_Ford slammed the doors shut and turned to face his eldest son, an evil glint in his eye. 'You're gonna learn some manners, boy,' he hissed and raised his hand._

_Mycroft barely felt any of it. He was too used to pain, too used to the heavy blows and dull aches. He curled up on the floor and let the darkness envelope him, spread through him and push his mind, his conscious, down, down, down... down to where Mycroft Holmes couldn't be touched._

_Down to where Mycroft Holmes ceased to exist._

* * *

><p>Greg got a text around five while standing outside with Donovan waiting for her cab. She paused mid-sentence to let Greg check the message.<p>

_Please wear suitable clothing for tonight._

_Camille_

Greg frowned and Donovan asked, 'What's wrong?'

'I just got a text... from my boyfriend's mum.'

Sally's eyes lit up and she pounced immediately. 'Boyfriend? When did you get a boyfriend? Who is it? Go on, tell us, I promise not to tell! Come on, sir, I need some good gossip. Who is he? What's his name? Is he big?'

Greg didn't hear any of his friend's ranting as he continued to stare at the text, wondering just how Camille Holmes had got his number. He was inclined to blame Sherlock.

Before he could reply, his phone beeped three more times and Sally stopped talking, eyes wide and lips pulled into a grin.

_I apologise for my mother's text, I'm sure whatever you wear will be appropriate._

_Mycroft_

**Mummy told me to tell you not to wear something too gay... I assume that means keep the leather trousers and fluoro pink shirts at home. For the record, I don't appreciate being anybody's errand boy. Also, I didn't give her your number. I'm pretty sure she hacked John's phone.**

**SH**

_Sherlock and Mycroft are fighting... something about pink shirts and leather. I suggest you just wear a suit. Also, I'm pretty sure Cam took my phone. Can you arrest her?_

_John Watson_

Greg smiled slightly when he realised he'd jumped head-first into an insane family. Of course he'd always known Sherlock was insane but hadn't counted on Dr Watson getting dragged down. He also hadn't counted on falling for Mycroft Holmes and meeting Mummy.

-oOo-

Greg was picked up by a familiar black car and driven home. He got changed, the car waiting outside, before hopping back in and being taken to Mycroft's flat. Mycroft answered the door with a grin; a true smile that pulled at his entire face, lips and eyes and ears included. He wrapped his arms around Greg and hugged him tight, nuzzling into the DI's neck.

'I missed you,' Mycroft admitted softly.

Greg grinned. 'Missed you too.' They stayed hugging for a few minutes before Greg said, 'Er, don't we have to get to dinner?'

Mycroft sighed and pulled away, suddenly his mood darkening.

'What's wrong?' Greg asked.

'I don't want to go.'

'Mycroft, your mother asked us.'

'No, she _told _us,' Mycroft scowled. 'Completely different, Gregory.'

Greg sighed. 'Come on, it's just one dinner.'

'Gregory, you saw the way she was at breakfast. You have absolutely no idea what you're getting yourself into.' He paused, eyes raking over Greg carefully. 'You don't have to go.'

'What? I want to; I got all dressed up and everything.' Greg _had _put on his best suite (which was still nowhere near as nice as one of Mycroft's) and he was even wearing a tie.

Mycroft blushed slightly and looked down. 'You look wonderful.'

'Yeah?' Greg asked and Mycroft nodded. 'Well, you know, special occasion.' Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Greg said, 'Meeting your mum.'

Mycroft scowled suddenly and turned, heading for his bedroom. Greg sighed and followed.

'Mycroft? What did I say?'

'Nothing,' Mycroft said stiffly as he began going through his wardrobe. Greg watched the man strip from his jacket and shirt, mouth-watering slightly. But it was tinged with fear and anger when he saw the scars on Mycroft's back; evidence of a belt buckle. 'Nothing, nothing, nothing,' Mycroft murmured, throwing another shirt back into the closet.

'What are you doing?' Greg asked.

'Looking for something to wear.'

'All your clothes are perfect, Mycroft.' Mycroft tutted but didn't answer, instead continuing to throw clothes. It took Greg a minute to realise Mycroft's hands were shaking and a further five to get Mycroft's attention. 'Myc... Mycroft... look at me!'

He did, dropping the jacket he'd been holding. He turned to face Greg, his eyes clouded and withdrawn. Greg sighed.

'Mycroft.'

'What?'

'Don't do this.'

'Don't do what?'

Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'Don't shut yourself off; not to me. Please, you can talk to me.' Mycroft shook his head. 'Mycroft, please, I'm begging you here.' Still Mycroft shook his head. 'Do you care about me?'

Mycroft blinked. 'What?'

'Do you care about me?' Greg repeated.

'Yes, of course,' Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. 'Okay, good. Now, if I was upset, you'd want to know, right?'

'Of course.'

'Right. So I wouldn't cut myself off from you, Mycroft. I wouldn't bottle it all up because I know doing that would upset you–' Mycroft sighed, suddenly realising where Greg was going, '– I'd tell you what was on my mind because I care about you and don't want to upset you so I'd–'

'Yes, Gregory,' Mycroft cut him off. 'I get it.'

'Do you?' Greg demanded, suddenly sounding angry.

'Y-yes?'

''Cause it doesn't sound like it,' Greg scowled, folding his arms. 'I'm trying here, Mycroft. I put up with your insane brother and his bloody husband. I sat through breakfast with your mother; your _mother_. She asked about my sexuality! All I'm trying to do is understand and you clamping up isn't helping. I care about you, Myc, a _lot_. So please, just tell me what's wrong.'

There was silence, both men staring at each other. Greg broke first, moving forward to wrap his arms around Mycroft's waist.

'I'm not trying to run your life, Mycroft, and I don't want to sound needy or pushy; we've only been dating two days–'

'That's the point,' Mycroft interrupted. Greg raised his eyebrows, forcing Mycroft to continue. 'Gregory, this entire thing we're doing is... it's new for me. I've never been in a relationship. We've been dating two days and suddenly you have to meet my mother. It's bad enough that you have to put up with me and Sherlock but my _mother_? No man should have to deal with her two days into the relationship.'

He sighed and leaned into the shorter man, head dropping to rest on Greg's shoulder.

'I don't know what to do with myself,' he murmured.

'What do you mean?' Greg asked softly.

'I feel...' Mycroft hesitated, eyes wide and hands tense on Greg's back. He didn't talk about how he felt; he never talked about how he felt... he didn't _like _talking about his feelings. But with Greg it all seemed... it seemed okay. Greg wouldn't judge; he wouldn't laugh or think differently of Mycroft. He would just accept it and make it all better. 'I feel so out of control,' Mycroft finally mumbled. 'I don't know what to do, Gregory.'

Despite the situation, Greg smiled. Mycroft was actually opening up; was actually sharing. He licked his lips before pulling back to look his boyfriend in the eye.

'Mycroft, I don't know what to do either.'

'Really?' Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. 'I've never dated someone as complicated as you. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but everything with us... it's different, yeah? It's not a... conventional relationship.'

'Is that a nice way of saying our relationship isn't normal?'

Greg chuckled. 'Shut up.' Mycroft smiled as the DI continued. 'Mycroft... God, I don't even know what I'm trying to say. Just... this thing we have, it's different, it's special. You're not the only one out of your depth here. But we'll make it work; all we have to do is talk to each other.'

Mycroft sighed and pulled Greg in closer. 'I don't even know why I feel so... angry,' he muttered.

'Doesn't matter why,' Greg said into his chest. 'All that matters is that you admitted it, okay? As long as you tell me how you feel we can work out the why later. Actually, we don't even have to. We can just fuck each other stupid and we'll be happy again.'

A giggle escaped Mycroft's lips and blushed when Greg smiled.

'Come on; let's get you dressed. Gotta meet your mum for dinner.'

Mycroft groaned. 'Don't remind me.' But he turned and plucked a suit and shirt from his wardrobe, getting dressed quickly. He was doing up his tie when Greg spun him around to press a soft kiss to his lips. 'Gregory?'

'Feeling better?' Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled when he realised he was. He didn't know why he'd got so worked up; why he'd felt so angry and scared all of a sudden. But Greg's words, his touches, his kisses... suddenly Mycroft felt better.

'Yes,' he said and nodded, finishing doing up his tie. 'Yes, I am.'

Greg grinned. 'Good,' he said. 'Now let's go before I rip that suit off and fuck you silly.'

Mycroft blushed and swallowed, pushing his arousal down as he followed his boyfriend.

-oOo-

Sherlock, John and Cam were already seated. They all smiled when Mycroft and Greg joined them, the elder Holmes fidgeting with his napkin. He didn't like that they were all there for him (and they were; Mummy wouldn't have visited for anything other than her son OD-ing).

He tried to remain calm and in control as they ordered drinks and appetisers but it grew harder to ignore his mother, especially when she dived right into her newest interrogation.

'My, have you read any good books lately?'

Mycroft and Sherlock both tensed, leaving their boyfriends with confused looks on their faces.

'I haven't had a chance to do much reading lately, Mother,' Mycroft replied, sipping his water. He'd wanted to order wine but felt like everyone was watching him. It made him paranoid and angry and hurt and dark and... Mycroft really didn't know anymore.

'Oh.'

'Work,' Mycroft said quickly.

'Yes, of course,' Cam smiled. 'What about movies? Have you and Gregory watched any good movies?'

Greg and Mycroft had done little more than have sex since getting together. The DI swallowed a mouthful of his beer and said, 'Erm, no, we haven't seen anything.' He really couldn't imagine Mycroft sitting in a movie theatre.

'That's too bad,' Cam smiled.

Greg wanted to shout at her; it was obvious her questions were upsetting Mycroft. The man hadn't stopped moving since he'd sat down. He had the same look on his face as when Sherlock had found all his drugs; like at any minute he was going to bolt.

But Cam seemed oblivious as she palmed her wine and asked, 'So what _have _you been doing with yourself, My?'

Mycroft felt like the walls were closing in on him. This whole thing was too much; his sudden relationship with Greg, the breakdowns, his mother's appearance, it was all getting to him. He couldn't handle it, he couldn't cope, he–

'So, Mrs Holmes,' Greg said suddenly, interrupting Mycroft's thoughts. 'I feel like we didn't get to talk properly at breakfast. Is there anything else you'd like to know about me?'

Mycroft, Sherlock and John all stared at the DI like he was insane... maybe he was, Greg didn't care. He just wanted to help Mycroft relax; he wanted his boyfriend to at least feel comfortable, even if that meant Greg himself had to answer Cam's never-ending and personal questions.

'Yes, Gregory,' Cam beamed and turned her eyes on him. 'Tell me about your family.'

John gave Greg a 'good luck, mate,' smile as Greg began to talk.

'Well, I was mostly raised by my mum. Dad worked like crazy to support me and my brother's so he wasn't around a lot. But it was good, we got by, even when dad wasn't there for all the important stuff like graduations and awards. My mum spent most of her time cooking and working and trying to stop me and my brother's fighting.'

'You fought a lot?' Cam asked, eyes flickering to her sons.

'Well, no more than any other siblings I guess,' Greg answered. 'We didn't always get along but they've always been supportive; they didn't care when I came out and even bought me...' he trailed off and burned red, realising he didn't want to talk about _that _with his boyfriend's mother.

Sherlock snickered as his mother raised her eyebrows, imitating Mycroft perfectly. Mycroft himself had snorted into his water while John tried not to giggle. Greg took the embarrassment with open arms; at least Mycroft had calmed down a little.

'How old were you when you realised?' Cam asked, smiling at Greg over her glass. 'That you were gay,' she added in case Greg didn't know what she was asking.

'Um, about fourteen or fifteen,' Greg said. 'I knew when I hit puberty but I didn't come out until a bit later; I was about seventeen when I actually told my parents but they already knew.'

'And they were supportive?'

'Yeah,' Greg nodded. 'Well Dad didn't really know what to do with a gay son. Adam and Blair are both older than me so he'd been through the sex talks with them and the whole dating thing... he didn't really know how to treat me in that respect but Mum helped, she was great. They both had their suspicions; Mum told Dad she thought I was gay when I was fifteen so it wasn't really surprising.'

'Good,' Cam nodded, 'that's good. I hate when parents don't accept their children for who they are, or even when they treat their son or daughter differently because they're gay.'

'Oh, I know,' Greg said. 'When I told Mum she smiled and said, 'That's good, son, thank you for telling me. Do you want chicken or pork for dinner?''

Mycroft smiled as Cam chuckled softly. John and Sherlock were exchanging looks, no doubt having a silent conversation; they did that a lot.

'I was surprised when Sherly told me about My,' Cam said, twirling her wine around. 'I must say I didn't handle it very well at first; I cried.' She smiled at Greg. 'My thought I was upset; he thought I was disappointed, silly boy. I love my boys, regardless of their sexuality.'

'That's good,' Greg smiled.

'Actually, it's helped a lot,' Cam continued. 'My has the best fashion advice of anyone I know.'

'Mother,' Mycroft sighed.

'Yeah,' Sherlock said, 'Mycroft's a big stereotype. I bet he even likes ballet.'

'Sherlock!' John scowled.

'Hey, Sherlock,' Greg said and smiled at the consulting detective. 'You like working with Scotland Yard, right?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'What are you saying?'

'If you want to continue working with me, you'll shut your mouth,' Greg said, 'got it?'

Sherlock paused for a second before nodding.

'Excellent,' Greg grinned and took a swig of beer. Mycroft beamed at him and John giggled. 'So, you were surprised,' Greg said, turning back to Cam.

'Oh yes, Sherly announced it at dinner,' Cam smiled. 'A bit of a shock but I got myself together long enough to tell My I loved him no matter what.'

'Yes,' Mycroft said slowly, 'we were all a bit _shocked _after Sherlock's declaration.'

'In my defence, I outed myself in the same conversation,' Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. 'You're an idiot.'

'I agree,' Greg nodded before Sherlock could answer.

'Hear, hear,' Mycroft added, raising his glass.

Sherlock scowled and slunk down in his sat to pout. Cam chuckled and Greg, Mycroft and John grinned.

'L'ho detto Gregory lo ami ancora?' Sherlock asked.

_['Have you told Gregory you love him yet?']_

Mycroft sighed and said, 'Not now, Sherlock.'

'L'ho detto Gregory lo ami ancora?' Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft was silent, everyone at the table looking from him to Sherlock. Sherlock opened his mouth to repeat the question and Mycroft glared at him.

'Italiani di nuovo? Non si diramano molto lontano, fratellino.'

_['Italian again? You don't branch out very far, little brother.']_

Sherlock grinned and repeated his question anyway. 'L'ho detto Gregory lo ami ancora?'

_['Have you told Gregory you love him yet?']_

Mycroft scowled. 'Davvero, Sherlock? Si vuole portare questa qui?'

_['Really, Sherlock? You want to bring that up here?']_

'I believe they're speaking Italian,' Cam murmured, Mycroft and Sherlock glaring at each other. Greg and John looked at Cam. 'They do this when they want to know something but don't want anyone else to hear it.'

'Why?' Greg asked.

'Well, I suppose Sherlock wants to know something,' Cam said, both her boys ignoring her completely. 'But he thinks Mycroft won't answer. So he's asking here to try and get him to talk about it. He is speaking Italian, though, because he doesn't want to embarrass My; it's private.'

Greg looked back at his boyfriend as Sherlock said, 'Lei ha detto più tardi ed è in seguito.'

_['You did say later and it's later.']_

'Sherlock, hai mai pensato che forse io non sono pronto a dirglielo?' Mycroft said.

_['Sherlock, did you ever think that maybe I'm not ready to tell him?']_

'Davvero?' Sherlock asked.

_['Really?']_

'Sì, davvero,' Mycroft nodded.

_['Yes, really.']_

Sherlock paused, eyes raking over his brother. 'Si potrebbe avere appena detto che in precedenza,' he said and sipped his wine.

_['You could have just said that earlier.']_

Mycroft sighed and grumbled, 'Avrei se avessi saputo che sarebbe stai zitto.'

_['I would have if I'd known it would shut you up.']_

Greg grinned. Mycroft was annoyed at something; he could tell that much. Well, everything Sherlock did annoyed _someone._

'Pensi che la mamma approva di lui?' Sherlock asked, eyes flicking to his mother.

_['Do you think Mummy approves of him?']_

Cam smiled and said, 'Do you two realise you're being rude?'

They ignored her.

'Lei non approvava John e ora li guardo; migliori amici,' Mycroft said and looked at John.

_['She didn't approve of John and now look at them; best friends.']_

'Okay, they're definitely talking about you,' Greg said and pointed at John.

'Sods,' John grunted and Greg nodded.

'Lestrade e John sono sempre infastidito,' Sherlock murmured, smiling at Greg. Greg glared back. While it was hot that Mycroft could speak other languages, it was a bit... rude, really. And it was Sherlock's fault.

_['Lestrade and John are getting annoyed.']_

'Hai mai pensato che sia perché siamo volutamente di parlare un'altra lingua per tenerli fuori della conversazione?' Mycroft asked.

_['Did you ever think it's because we're purposely speaking another language to keep them out of the conversation?']_

'What have you been doing with yourself, John?' Cam asked.

Greg grinned at him as John answered, 'Oh, you know. Just... working.'

'Mm,' Cam nodded, 'have you and Sherlock thought about children yet?'

John spat into his glass and Greg grinned.

'Erm, Sherlock?' John said, nudging his husband.

Sherlock smiled. 'Sì, questo pensiero mi venne in mente,' he said to Mycroft.

_['Yes, that thought did occur to me.']_

'Sherlock,' John scowled.

'Leave them,' Cam said and focused completely on John.

'Eppure si sta ancora facendo,' Mycroft said.

_['And yet you're still doing it.']_

'Stiamo ancora facendo, Mycroft,' Sherlock said and smiled. 'Non prendetevela con me.'

_['_We_ are still doing it, Mycroft. Don't blame me.']_

'I think it's never too early to have children,' Cam said and John's eyebrows went up. 'I had My when I was twenty-four.'

Greg nudged his boyfriend, knowing John was going to kill Sherlock later for leaving him to have this conversation alone.

'Forse dovremmo smettere di oggi, Sherlock,' Mycroft said and smiled at Greg.

_['Perhaps we should stop now, Sherlock.']_

'Ma è davvero divertente,' Sherlock whined.

_['But it's really fun.']_

Mycroft gave him a smile as Cam continued to question John. 'Sì ... sì lo è.'

_['Yes... yes it is.']_

Greg was about to start shouting (_poor John, _he thought) when he saw a soft, almost caring look cross Sherlock's face. He paused as Sherlock asked, 'Sei felice, Mycroft?'

_['Are you happy, Mycroft?']_

Mycroft smiled back and Greg felt his heart melt a little; Mycroft actually... he looked _happy._

'Io sono,' Mycroft nodded.

_['I am.']_

Sherlock smiled. 'Voi sapete che è la prima volta ho creduto queste parole da quando eravate in ospedale.'

_['You know that's the first time I've believed those words since you were in hospital.']_

Greg looked at his boyfriend.

'Forse è perché sono finalmente dicendo la verità,' Mycroft said softly.

_['Maybe that's because I'm finally telling the truth.']_

Sherlock grinned. 'Grazie, Mycroft.'

_['Thank you, Mycroft.']_

'Per che cosa?' Mycroft asked, an eyebrow raised.

_['For what?']_

'Per aver detto che...' Sherlock said. 'Grazie.'

_['For saying that... thank you.']_

Mycroft swallowed and glanced at Greg, who smiled, before saying, 'Lei è ... di niente, Sherlock.'

_['You're... you're welcome, Sherlock.']_

There was a pause where John sucked down the rest of his beer and ordered another one, Cam now asking about names. 'Constance is good, for a boy or a girl,' Cam said.

'Oh Lord,' John groaned.

'Dovremmo iniziare a parlare in tedesco ora?' Sherlock asked with a smirk.

_['Should we start speaking in German now?']_

'Non si parla Tedesco,' Mycroft said, sipping his water.

_['You don't speak German.']_

Sherlock swirled his wine. 'Si poteva insegnarmi.'

_['You could teach me.']_

'Non ora, i nostri ragazzi sono infastiditi,' Mycroft said and looked at Greg. Greg folded his arms and tried to put on his best, 'I'm annoyed with you,' look.

_['Not now; our partners are annoyed.']_

'I nostri fidanzati sono sempre infastidito,' Sherlock said and rolled his eyes. Sono con noi, dopo tutto. Siamo tenuti ainfastidire loro ad un certo punto.'

_['Our partners are always annoyed. They're with us, after all. We're bound to annoy them at some point.']_

'Sherlock,' John tried again, nudging his husband.

'Insegnare è Tedesco durante la cena e lasciandoli alle domande di nostra madre sembra più fastidioso del solito,' Mycroft said.

_['Teaching you German during dinner and leaving them to our mother's questions seems more annoying than usual.']_

Sherlock nodded. 'Sì, credo sia.'

_['Yes, I suppose it is.']_

'Eppure stiamo ancora facendo,' Mycroft said.

_['Yet we're still doing it.']_

'Sì, Mycroft ... sì siamo,' Sherlock smirked.

_['Yes, Mycroft... yes we are.']_

'Okay, stop now,' Greg said and grabbed Mycroft's hand. He kissed his knuckles. 'It's great that you can speak another language and all but...' he trailed off and looked at John, who was practically sweating under Cam's gaze.

'My apologies,' Mycroft smiled and squeezed Greg's hand.

'Mummy, leave John alone,' Sherlock said and John breathed a sigh of relief.

'What?' Cam asked. 'I was merely asking his plans about children.'

'We will have children when we are ready to have children,' Sherlock said.

'Oh,' Cam nodded, 'very well.'

John raised his eyebrows and looked at Sherlock, who shrugged. 'Idiot,' the doctor muttered.

Sherlock smiled.

-oOo-

The rest of dinner passed by without the Holmes brothers turning to another language (apart from Sherlock's occasional grunts which Greg and John realised were probably swear words). Cam started talking about Mycroft's and Sherlock's childhood halfway through the main course, causing much embarrassment for both her sons.

Greg listened to what seemed like an endless list of his boyfriend's accomplishments. Mycroft had graduated high school at the age of fifteen and later left university at seventeen. He'd stayed home another two years before venturing out into the world to make his mark in politics (albeit discreetly).

Mycroft had excelled at everything he tried. He passed every single subject with the best scores the country had seen. He had mastered four languages by his sixteen birthday; had taught Sherlock French and Italian even though Sherlock had never been able to sit still. He had protected his brother and mother; had always put them before himself.

But he'd never enjoyed anything. The more Greg listened, the more he began to see the truth. Yes, Mycroft had studied a lot. But he'd never enjoyed it; he'd never had a favourite subject. Yes, Mycroft had applied himself and had got more done before he turned fourteen that Greg ever had in his life; but he hadn't enjoyed it.

Mycroft had never been happy. He'd never had friends or a girlfriend/boyfriend besides the girl he'd been dating before Sherlock outed him. He'd never... Mycroft Holmes had always been dark.

Greg felt his mood slip further and further down the longer Cam talked. Mycroft was smiling for his mother and eating his food but there was a kind of darkness behind his eyes; a anger and unhappiness that Greg couldn't place. He'd seen it there the first time Mycroft woke up in hospital and later when they had lunch and dinner. It disappeared when they had sex and when they kissed or laughed together. But it was always there, somewhere, lurking just behind those pale blue eyes Greg loved.

And it was there, now, because Mycroft had to listen to his childhood; to his mother demand to know why he hadn't continued studying Latin or mathematics or English Literature. He had to hear about Sherlock's wild party friends and his ability to blow up half a science room with water and chicken. Mycroft managed to keep a smile plastered on his face but Greg could see that he wasn't having fun.

It was his fault; all Greg's fault. _He _was the reason Mycroft was sitting there with his mum. _He _was the reason Mycroft was suffering through an endless sea of stories and demands. Greg was causing pain for the man he loved.

Did he love him? How could he? Mycroft was upset, uncomfortable, and Greg was responsible. The longer Greg sat there the more he began to freak out. You didn't do that to the people you loved; you made them happy, not sad.

Suddenly everything came crashing down and Greg felt a hollow blackness in his gut. He shouldn't have kissed Mycroft; he shouldn't have dragged the man into a relationship. Mycroft was damaged and depressed and fragile; he was barely getting by. And what was Greg doing? Getting his rocks off and forcing Mycroft into uncomfortable positions.

Greg couldn't breathe and choked as he stood. He needed to get out; _now_. He needed air and a cigarette and... and... he just needed to get out!

'Gregory?' Mycroft said, looking up at his boyfriend. 'Are you okay?'

Greg couldn't get any words out. He nodded quickly before slipping through the tables and out the door, practically running as he pushed through the glass. Mycroft made to follow but Sherlock stopped him.

'I'll go,' the younger Holmes said. He gave John a quick kiss before following Greg outside.

'Is he alright?' Cam asked.

John shrugged and looked at Mycroft. Mycroft had twisted in his seat, eyes concerned as he stared at the door.


	18. Dinner II

**Chapter Eighteen: Dinner II**

Sherlock found Greg standing to the left of the restaurant, shadows darking his face. He was trying to light a cigarette and Sherlock watched as the lighter sparked up before flickering out over and over again. Finally Sherlock drew his coat tightly around his thin frame and stepped forward.

He grabbed the lighter and Greg jumped before leaning forward so Sherlock could light his cigarette.

'Thanks,' Greg grunted, taking a long drag and blowing smoke above his head.

Sherlock stuck his hands into his pocket and watched Greg. 'So...' he said slowly and the older man glanced at him. 'Do you want to explain why you left the restaurant looking like you were about to have a heart attack?'

Greg sighed, fingers twitching around his cigarette. 'I... God, Sherlock, what am I doing?'

Sherlock just stared, eyes on the DI.

'I can't drag Mycroft into a serious relationship, not now!' Greg continued. 'He's so damaged and I... what do I do? How do I help him? I just... God, we had one dinner and he took off!'

Greg was getting more agitated the longer he spoke, hands gesturing wildly before his right came to his lips to suck in another lungful of smoke.

'What if he does it again?' Greg asked. 'How do I make him feel safe? How do I get through to him? How... how...' He trailed off and felt tears threaten to break free. But he swallowed them back, not wanting to breakdown in front of Sherlock Holmes.

The other man was silent, watching Greg puff on his cigarette. Suddenly he reached forward and dove a hand into Greg's jacket pocket, pulling out his cigarettes. He lit one for himself and Greg, passing it over and breathing out.

'Lestrade...' Sherlock said slowly, waiting until Greg had ground out his first cigarette and puffed back on his second. 'Greg.'

Greg raised his eyebrows. Sherlock never called him Greg.

'You have to stop worrying,' Sherlock said.

'Stop worrying? Stop _worrying_?' Greg gaped. 'The man I love is a fucking drug addict, Sherlock! Sometimes he just looks so... angry, you know? And hurt and dark and... and _lost_. What do I have to offer him? He's rich, a genius, he's done _so _much with his life. What have I done? I'm old, I'm never getting promoted past being a DI, and I need your help on every bloody case I get. Mycroft's brilliant and wonderful and... what am I?'

'You're brilliant too,' Sherlock said.

Greg blinked, smoke curling past his eyes. No, that was wrong. Sherlock... Sherlock didn't say just say that. Sherlock Holmes did _not _say things like that, not about Greg.

'Greg, listen carefully, because I'm going to deny this conversation took place until the day I die,' Sherlock said and took a long drag of his cigarette. He blew smoke above his head and continued talking.

'My brother has always been brilliant. His genius has made him an outcast. I think it's one of the things that has led to this... whatever he has. I've thought about it carefully and Mycroft has never enjoyed anything. He has spent his entire life taking care of me; it's what he lives for. But now I have John...'

He trailed off and looked down, like he was ashamed he'd fallen in love with John and left Mycroft alone.

'My brother has never had anyone but me and now... it's not the same. I know Mycroft is happy for me but the other emotions; the pain, the anger, whatever it is that makes him take drugs... it's too much. It almost took him away from me.

'You saw him at the hospital, Greg. You saw the denial. He just wanted to die; he didn't think anything was worth living for... and then you came along.'

Greg swallowed when Sherlock paused, entirely focused on the younger Holmes. His cigarette burned out, forgotten. He'd never heard this level of emotion, of caring, from Sherlock Holmes.

'You should have seen him after that lunch, Greg. When he's with you, or talks about you, or just _thinks _about you, he gets this look on his face; he's actually _happy. _He actually feels something other than anger and hurt and darkness; he feels good.

'I've never seen my brother happier than when he's with you, Greg. Just being there for him, talking to him, he... you're the best thing that's ever happened to him. You're very different people but together... you just fit, okay? You complete each other.

'Greg, don't you ever think that you're no good for Mycroft. Don't you ever think even for a second that you're not helping him. You are a brilliant detective, Greg, and a good man; you are funny, loyal, and good to have around. There's no one in this world I would rather see Mycroft with then you.

'You saved his life, Greg, and I'm not just talking about when he tried to kill himself.' Sherlock swallowed back the pain and continued. 'You save his life every day just by being _you_.

'It'll be hard, Greg. It'll hurt. There will be tears and fights and anger. But you love him and he loves you. At the end of the day, that's all that matters. You love my brother and Mycroft loves you.'

Sherlock stopped suddenly, eyes wide and filled with so much emotion Greg thought the consulting detective might fall over. He'd never seen this side of Sherlock.

'Don't give up, Greg. Mycroft is worth it. The love you feel is worth it.' He paused, bit his lip. 'Thank you, Greg; thank you for just being... you, and being there for Mycroft. He needs someone to... to need him, if that makes sense. He needs someone who wants to help him and receive his help; he needs someone to have dinner with and wake up with and share his problems with. He needs someone like you.'

And then Sherlock flicked out his cigarette, patted Greg on the shoulder, and went back into the restaurant, leaving Greg on the street, stunned and lost for words.

-oOo-

Greg stepped back into the restaurant and felt all eyes of his dining companions on him as he approached the table. He cleared his throat and said, 'Sorry,' as he sat.

'Are you okay?' Mycroft asked, face a mask of worry.

Greg smiled and leaned over, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's lips.

'Yeah,' he said, pulling back to see a stunned look on Mycroft's face. 'I'm fine.'

Mycroft blushed and turned away quickly, staring at his place. John and Cam shared a smile and Greg looked at Sherlock.

"_Thank you_," he mouthed to the younger Holmes.

Sherlock nodded and said a silent, "_You're welcome._"

-oOo-

'Are you staying in the city, Mother?' Mycroft asked after paying for dinner. They were all outside, Greg and Sherlock smoking and Mycroft trying not to assault his boyfriend for one; he didn't want Cam going on and on about his smoking habit on top of everything else.

'No, I haven't had time to check into a hotel,' Cam said, 'my clothes are still in my car.'

'Would you like me to book you a room?' Mycroft asked and reached for his BlackBerry.

'I'd rather stay near my boys,' Cam smiled.

'Oh,' Mycroft said and fidgeted with his cuffs. 'Mummy, I don't have any room. Sherlock and John are staying in my guest room and I turned the other two into a study and a music room.'

'Well, perhaps I could stay on the couch,' Cam said.

'Yes, I'm sure you would be okay sleeping on the couch,' Sherlock rolled his eyes. John nudged him and he smiled.

'We could stay on the couch,' John said, 'I don't mind.'

'No, me either, John and I like the couch,' Sherlock grinned.

Mycroft looked truly horrified and Greg giggled.

'Nonsense boys, you two need your privacy,' Cam said.

'You can stay in my room,' Mycroft said.

Cam frowned. 'Where will you stay?'

'The couch is available,' Sherlock muttered.

'You can stay with me,' Greg said suddenly and looked away when everyone turned to him. 'Erm, I was just... well the couch is bad for... bad for your back and... I don't mind... really.'

He swallowed and refused to look up until Mycroft twined their fingers together. 'That sounds lovely, Gregory,' Mycroft smiled.

Greg hesitated before smiling back.

'Wonderful,' Cam said as one of Mycroft's never-ending black cars pulled up. 'Let's get out of the cold.'

'Thank you,' Mycroft whispered, giving Greg a quick kiss.

'No worries,' Greg smiled.

-oOo-

Mycroft climbed back into his car with a bag of things, smiling at Greg shyly. Greg realised Mycroft had probably never stayed at a boyfriend's house because he'd never had an actual boyfriend. He remembered Mycroft saying he'd woken up in other men's beds and felt sick to know it was probably after a night of drinking and shooting up.

Greg reached over and took Mycroft's hand, squeezing gently as they were driven to his flat.

Greg's flat was small and a bit messy. He grabbed clothes and files, dumping his laundry in the bathroom before shoving the papers into his already overflowing bookcase. Mycroft watched from the doorway, smiling as Greg raced past with an armload of beer bottles.

'Sorry, wasn't expecting company,' Greg blushed and put a plate in the sink.

'It's fine, Gregory.'

'Sorry,' Greg mumbled.

Mycroft stepped forward, dropping his bag and pulling Greg in for a hug. 'Gregory, really, it's fine; I've woken up in worse.'

Greg smiled slightly and kissed Mycroft, his boyfriend humming against his lips.

'So... this is my place,' Greg said.

'It's very nice,' Mycroft said without looking around.

Greg chuckled and pulled back. 'DVD?' he asked.

'If you wish,' Mycroft nodded and allowed Greg to pull him onto the couch. Mycroft removed his jacket, waistcoat and tie as Greg went through his DVD's, bending over and grabbing Mycroft's attention completely.

'What do you want to watch?' Greg asked. He had to turn when Mycroft didn't answer and grinned when the taller man blinked, blushing and looking away. 'Are you checking out my arse?'

'N-no,' Mycroft tried.

'Yeah you are.'

'I most certainly am not.'

Greg smiled and grabbed a random DVD, turning everything on. He made sure to bend over whenever he could before joining Mycroft on the couch, his boyfriend turning red.

'You can check out my arse, you know,' Greg said, grabbing the remote. 'I don't mind.'

Mycroft looked up at him carefully before saying, 'Really?'

'Absolutely.'

'Why?'

'Tells me that you like my body.'

Mycroft smiled. 'I'd think all the sex and shouting would have told you that.'

Greg shrugged. 'A man can never be sure, Mycroft.'

'Gregory; I like your body. You are very, very sexy and I'm jealous of anyone who gets to spend time with you.'

'Really?'

'Most definitely.'

'Hmm, maybe I don't believe you,' Greg said as the DVD started.

'Why wouldn't you?' Mycroft asked.

Greg turned to look at Mycroft slowly, looking very serious. 'Maybe I need some... reassurance.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Reassurance?'

His boyfriend nodded. 'Maybe something like... hmm, like a kiss. A kiss would make me believe you.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'Gregory, are you asking me to kiss you?'

'Maybe.'

Instead of answering, Mycroft opened his arms. Greg grinned and dropped the remote before launching himself at his boyfriend, both men falling back to lie sprawled across the couch. Mycroft wrapped his arms around the DI as their lips connected, everything warm and wet and _so _good.

One of Greg's hands dropped to untuck Mycroft's shirt and touch the soft skin underneath. His other caressed Mycroft's neck, his face, before moving up to run through his hair.

Mycroft's head tilted to the right, forcing Greg to go the other way so their lips connected better. Mycroft's tongue pushed at the DI's lips, seeking entrance and receiving it. Greg would never tire of feeling Mycroft's tongue explore his mouth and wrap around his own. Mycroft's tongue was magic; it knew exactly what to do to make Greg shiver and pant for more.

His hands, too. God, Greg would never get tired of Mycroft's hands. His right hand was gripping the back of Greg's neck, fingers stroking through his hair. The other was at his arse, fumbling to get at the hot flesh beneath.

Greg leaned back suddenly and Mycroft gasped for air, face flushed and lips swollen. 'What are you doing?' he asked.

Greg fiddled with his belt before he got it open, chest heaving with each breath as he undid his trousers and unzipped his fly. He grinned and pushed forward again, moving so he was once more lying atop his boyfriend.

He wriggled a bit so his pants fell down and breathed against Mycroft's lips. 'Better?'

Mycroft didn't answer until he had his hands down Greg's pants and underwear, warm fingers gripping the DI's arse. 'Mm, very nice.'

'Good,' Greg said, 'so we can get back to this.' He kissed Mycroft again, moving straight into the hot, slow kisses they'd been giving each other before.

They stayed kissing until the DVD menu popped up. Greg sat up, suddenly feeling dizzy.

'Should probably learn to stop more for air,' he breathed, mouth feeling numb.

'Yes, probably,' Mycroft managed, licking his lips.

'Water,' Greg said and stood on shaky legs. He'd been hard for hours. 'Erm... water.'

Mycroft smiled and nodded as Greg turned off the DVD and went into the kitchen. He came back and handed Mycroft a glass, watching him sip the cool liquid.

'I haven't done that in years,' Greg murmured.

'What?'

'Just made out with someone. I'm not seventeen anymore.'

'Hmm,' Mycroft said, finishing his water. 'It's rather nice.'

'It is,' Greg nodded, fiddling with his glass. He smiled at Mycroft. 'Bedroom?'

'Oh God, yes,' Mycroft nodded.

Greg took Mycroft's hand and dragged him to the only bedroom, Mycroft grabbing his bag as they went.

'This room is lovely,' he said as he kissed the DI, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders.

Greg chuckled. 'You haven't seen it.' He felt Mycroft shrug, their bodies pressed together. 'Want a tour?'

'No.'

'You sure?' Greg asked. 'The paint's real nice. And I've got this table that has one leg shorter than the others.' Mycroft chuckled against his lips, eyes closed. 'The bathroom is all red and white. The shower curtain is funny, has a rip in the corner, and my brush has three teeth miss– _oof_!' He let out a breath when Mycroft pushed him back onto the bed.

'Gregory, your flat is fine,' Mycroft said, standing between Greg's legs and looking down at him. 'I'm much more interested in this view.'

'I think we talked about this.'

'What?' Mycroft asked, eyes raking over his boyfriend.

'I talked about liking the view,' Greg said, sitting up slowly, 'but I much prefer getting actively involved.'

'Is... is that so?' Mycroft asked. Greg had started pulling at his belt, fingers strong and sure as they slipped it free.

'Yup,' Greg nodded, pulling at buttons and a zipper before letting the expensive trousers drop. Mycroft had lost his shoes somewhere around hour two of him and Greg making out. He stepped from his pants and pulled off his socks, looking up at Greg.

Greg had already shed his shirt and slipped from his trousers, removing his shoes and pushing one socked foot against Mycroft's thigh. 'Take my socks off?'

'Do I look like a professional tailor for you?'

Greg raised his eyebrows. 'We really have to talk about what you do with your tailor.'

Mycroft smiled, delicately pulling one of Greg's socks off. 'My tailor is sixty-two years-old.'

'Really?' Greg said. He pushed his other foot towards Mycroft, rubbing at his underwear. 'So you _really _like older man, huh?'

'Gregory, you are disgusting.'

'Hey, I'm not the one asking sixty-two year-old men to undress me.'

'I don't ask him to undress me.'

'He touches your clothes,' Greg said, rubbing his now sock-free foot against his boyfriend. 'And you. I'm not the one asking people to undress me, Myc.'

'You're asking _me_.'

'Mm, I like it,' Greg smiled.

'You're beginning to confuse me.'

'Excellent.'

'Excellent?'

'Doctor Who.'

Mycroft paused. 'What?'

'Cricket.'

'Gregory–'

'Confused yet?' Greg asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pushed Greg back, sliding to sit on his lap. 'You are a very, very strange man, Gregory Lestrade.'

'And yet here you are.'

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded, bending down to kiss Greg softly. 'I do like being here.'

'I like having you here; though your couch is much more comfortable.'

'Mm,' Mycroft murmured against him. 'I think I'll have that couch burned.'

'Why?'

'My brother and brother-in-law.'

'Oh,' Greg said. 'Well we could always go to Baker Street and have sex on their couch.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'I'm sure they've beaten us to it.'

'That's disgusting.'

'Yes, let's stop talking about it,' Mycroft said and pushed himself down. Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft, hauling him closer and closer as things got more heated. Soon Mycroft was palming his crotch, Greg gasping into him.

'Pants, off!'

'I've already taken off my pants,' Mycroft said.

'You know what I mean!' Greg hissed. It turned into a groan when Mycroft slipped his fingers up the hem of Greg's underwear, lightly running the pads up his hot shaft. 'Please, Mycroft.'

'Condoms are in my bag,' Mycroft said quickly before rolling clear. He pulled his underwear down and watched Greg do the same, the DI stumbling from the bed to open Mycroft's bag. He grabbed the condoms and lube, grinning as he did.

'You stole this from your brother.'

'And?' Mycroft asked.

'He's going to kill you.'

'I'm sure Doctor Watson has bought another bottle.'

'Mm, he'll still kill you.'

'Right now I don't care,' Mycroft said. He tore open a condom and rolled it onto Greg's erection, taking plenty of time to rub him up and down.

'God, please,' Greg beg.

How could you keep a man like Gregory Lestrade waiting? Mycroft rolled onto his back, resting his head against Greg's pillows as he handed over the lube bottle. Greg squeezed cold liquid onto his fingers before dropping the bottle and moving between Mycroft's legs.

He kept his eyes on his boyfriend as he circled his entrance, running a light finger along Mycroft's balls. Mycroft shivered and closed his eyes, biting his lip to stop from shouting for Greg.

Suddenly a finger entered him and Mycroft gasped, muscles clenching around Greg's index finger. Greg prepared him slowly and thoroughly, soon having three fingers buried in Mycroft's heat. He palmed his cock at the same time, spreading pre-come with his thumb.

Mycroft groaned and writhed beneath him, fingers curling in Greg's duvet and head thrust back into the pillows. He whimpered every time Greg pushed in, panting and moaning and eyes tearing up.

'G-Greg,' Mycroft mumbled. 'P-please.'

Greg was enjoying himself far too much to stop now and curled his fingers to touch Mycroft's prostate.

'Oh God,' the taller man groaned, bucking into the touch. 'A-again.'

Greg did, Mycroft now pushing himself down. He started fucking himself on Greg's fingers, swearing and pulling at his hair. When Greg felt him tighten, his own hand pull at his cock, he slipped out.

'No!' Mycroft whined. 'No, please, I'm so close!'

'Not yet.'

'Why not?' Mycroft demanded.

Greg got to his knees and Mycroft's eyes dropped to his cock. He bit his lip as Greg began jerking himself, spreading lube along his condom-clad shaft.

'Greg?'

'Mm?' Greg murmured.

'Please, I need you.'

'You need me?'

'Yes.'

'Right now?'

'_Yes_!' Mycroft said, eyes wide, pupils blown with lust.

Greg grinned. He grabbed Mycroft's legs and pulled them around his waist, only moving when his boyfriend's heels dug into his lower back. His cock pushed at Mycroft's arse and the politician groaned, eyes begging as they looked up at Greg.

With a small smile, Greg pushed in.

'Thank fuck,' Mycroft moaned and Greg couldn't help but giggle. 'What?'

'I like when you swear.'

'Really?' Greg nodded. 'How strange.'

'I'm weird, remember?' Greg said, leaning forward to kiss Mycroft softly. He slipped out and Mycroft whined. Greg giggled again.

'Stop it.'

'Oh, stop having sex with you?'

'No!' Mycroft shouted, fingers suddenly digging into Greg's hips. 'Don't you fucking dare!'

'Hmm, I might not if you keep swearing.'

'You want me to swear more?'

Greg nodded, pushing back in and making Mycroft moan. 'I like when you swear.'

'R-really?' Mycroft murmured.

'Oh yeah; really hot.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'If you keep fucking me I might just swear for you.'

'That sentence is a little bit of a conundrum or a paradox or a–'

'Fuck you,' Mycroft grunted.

Greg smiled and pulled out before re-entering his boyfriend swiftly, Mycroft muttering curses under his breath. Greg had never heard anything as hot as Mycroft Holmes swearing. He couldn't help but set up a breath-taking pace, Mycroft's swears growing louder and louder. Greg felt sorry for his neighbours but didn't dare ask Mycroft to stop; it was physically impossible for him to ask Mycroft to stop.

'Oh God, Greg,' Mycroft moaned, hand wrapped around his cock. He pulled in wild, jerky movements, telling Greg he was almost there. 'Fuck, fuck, never stop.'

'I never will,' Greg grunted. 'Ever, Myc, you hear me?'

'Y-yes,' Mycroft nodded.

'I will never, _ever _leave you,' Greg said, remembering Sherlock's words, even through his lust-soaked brain. 'I need you.'

Mycroft's eyes went wide but he didn't have time to think as an orgasm was ripped from him. He swore loudly and pulled at himself, nails digging into Greg's arm as he came all over his stomach.

He clamped down tightly around Greg, pulling the DI over the edge. Greg moaned as he leaked into his boyfriend, short, jerky thrusts drawing out his orgasm longer and longer. Finally his cock softened and he slipped out, Mycroft groaning and dropping his legs.

Greg rolled onto his back, panting heavily and staring at the ceiling.

'Greg?'

'Mm?' he murmured.

Mycroft rubbed at his stomach. 'You... you need me?'

Greg nodded, turning his head to look at Mycroft. The younger man looked lost, confused, like he didn't know where he was. 'Yeah, 'course I do.'

Mycroft swallowed. 'Why?'

'Why? I care about you.'

'Oh.'

'Myc, I do,' Greg said and pulled Mycroft close. He pushed one arm under Mycroft's head, the other resting on his hip. 'Myc, I really do need you; I need you around all the time, day and night. I know that's not possible 'cause I have work and eventually you'll have work again and we'll drive each other insane if we're together _all _the time.

'But I really, really do care about you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I feel better with you around, you know? And I worry about you, you know that.'

Mycroft bit his lip and looked down.

'Hey, don't do that,' Greg said softly, fingers under Mycroft's chin. He made the politician look at him. 'Don't feel embarrassed in front of me, Mycroft Holmes. Do that with anyone else but _not _me. I don't want you to ever feel uncomfortable around me, you got that?'

'I don't.'

'What?'

Mycroft pushed Greg's hand away before threading their fingers together. 'I don't feel uncomfortable with you, not anymore.'

'Not anymore?' Greg asked.

'There were a lot of moments of my being attracted to you and... well, blushing,' he smiled weakly and Greg grinned. 'But now I can look at you and kiss you and... I can be with you. I don't have to be embarrassed. I... I feel comfortable with you.'

'Yeah?'

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded. 'I feel comfortable at my flat and here, at yours. I feel comfortable going out to dinner with you, even with my mother there. I feel comfortable here, like this, in your arms.' He smiled and pulled Greg closer, pressing their lips together.

'That's good, Myc,' Greg murmured. 'I'm glad you feel comfortable around me.'

'Really?'

'Duh.'

Mycroft chuckled before pulling back. 'I think I need a shower.'

'But you look so cute.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes and dragged Greg up. 'Shower, Gregory.'

'Will you swear if I don't?'

Mycroft chuckled and left him on the bed. Greg pulled off the condom and threw it in the bin before joining Mycroft in the shower, thinking nobody looked as hot covered in water as Mycroft Holmes.

-oOo-

Much later, in bed and wrapped in a lovely duvet and his boyfriend, Mycroft Holmes sighed. He was so comfortable, so happy, to be there with Greg. He'd never felt this happy before; had never felt this safe and amazing and... right.

Greg needed him. Needed _him_, Mycroft Holmes. It was amazing; Mycroft had never thought someone like Greg would ever need him.

He shifted in bed to look at Greg properly. The DI was asleep, face pressed into the pillow and lips slightly parted. He had one arm wrapped around Mycroft tightly, as though he needed him even in his sleep.

Mycroft smiled and pressed a soft kiss against Greg's forehead before settling back down. He... he was happy. Lying there in the dark, staring at Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft was happier than he ever had been. All the anger, the hurt, all that shit he always felt, none of it mattered with Greg there.

And Mycroft felt okay with that.


	19. Problems

**Chapter Nineteen: Problems**

Mycroft and Greg woke within minutes of each other, neither saying anything as sunlight streamed through the DI's windows. They held each other closely, Greg threading his fingers through Mycroft's hair and Mycroft drawing patterns along his arm. Greg shifted, his head resting against Mycroft's arm.

'Morning,' he finally yawned.

Mycroft smiled. 'Good morning, Gregory.'

'Did you sleep well?'

'Very.'

'Sorry my bed's not as big as yours,' Greg said. 'It's only a double.'

'All the more reason to cuddle you,' Mycroft said.

Greg chuckled and kissed him, rolling over to press their bodies together. They kissed softly, neither really in the mood for sex after the previous night. It was nice, though, to just be together, especially with Mycroft's mother visiting and the dinner and all the craziness.

Mycroft peppered kisses along Greg's jaw, the older man's stubble scratching at his lips. 'I like you with stubble,' he said softly.

'Yeah?'

'Mm, very manly.'

Greg chuckled and pushed Mycroft back. He ran his fingers along Mycroft's face and said, 'You should shave less often.'

'Why?'

'I like stubble too.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'How is liking stubble ridiculous?' Greg asked. 'Like you said, it's very manly.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Are you saying I'm not manly?'

Greg thought about all the things Mycroft did; the way he talked, brushed his hair, carried himself and crossed his legs and ate his food. He couldn't help giggling and Mycroft frowned.

'Oh, so I'm not manly,' the taller man said and rolled over, back to Greg. 'I apologise.'

'I'm sorry,' Greg said and tried to pull Mycroft back. But the other man wasn't budging. 'Myc, I'm sorry, really. You're manly.'

'Humph,' Mycroft grunted.

'You are,' Greg tried. 'You have very manly arms.' He squeezed one of Mycroft's arms to prove a point. 'And a very manly back.' He trailed a finger down Mycroft's naked skin, his boyfriend shivering. 'Very manly arse.' He squeezed a cheek and Mycroft jumped, nearly rolling off the bed. He turned to look at Greg, face red. 'Believe me?' Greg asked.

'Y-yes.'

'Good,' Greg grinned and kissed him softly. He licked Mycroft's jaw. 'Manly jaw.'

Mycroft chuckled and drew him in for a hug. 'Fine, I believe you.'

'I'm forgiven?'

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded. They kissed again before Greg was pulling back.

'Come on, breakfast.'

Greg pulled on a pair of boxers and a faded shirt, ruffling his hair as he turned to look at Mycroft. The taller man was standing by the bed, fidgeting, still naked.

'Myc? What's wrong?'

'I... I didn't bring any pyjamas.'

Greg smiled. 'You forgot pyjamas?'

'I only brought toiletries and clothes for today.'

'S'okay, you can borrow some of mine.' He hunted through his draws and pulled out a blue t-shirt and some black tracksuit pants. He pressed them into Mycroft's hands and said, 'Bathroom's down the hall if you need it, I'll make some toast.'

Mycroft thanked him and Greg shuffled down the hallway, yawning and wondering if he had any food. He found bread in the fridge as well as some cheese and tomatos. The cheese smelled off but then didn't cheese always smell awful? He shrugged and pushed slices of bread into the toaster.

Mycroft joined him while he was making coffee, humming a Green Day song under his breath. Mycroft smiled and sat at the small table to watch Greg, eyes running up and down his boyfriend's back. Greg didn't see him until he turned with two coffees, nearly jumping and spilling boiling hot liquid.

'Jesus, scare the crap out of me why don't you.'

'Aren't police officer's supposed to be prepared for anything?' Mycroft asked, taking one of the mugs.

'Yeah, but not government spies sneaking into their kitchens.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'I am not a spy, Gregory.'

'So what _are _you then?' Greg asked.

Mycroft just smiled and sipped his coffee. Greg gave him an evil look which melted away when he looked at Mycroft properly. The shirt was a little small for Greg but hugged Mycroft's torso tightly, showing off his chest and biceps. The tracksuit pants were too short and Mycroft had rolled up the legs to show off his calves. Greg swallowed, eyes roaming up and down Mycroft carefully.

'Something wrong?' the politician asked, smiling over his mug.

'Er... n-no,' Greg managed.

'I quite like this t-shirt,' Mycroft said and pulled at one of the sleeves. 'I might just keep it.'

The colour highlighted Mycroft's eyes fantastically and made them look brighter, a deeper blue like the sky. 'Yeah,' Greg said, 'I think you should keep it.'

Mycroft grinned and pulled Greg in for a soft kiss, lips warm and wet. The toaster popped but Greg didn't budge, preferring Mycroft's mouth over food. Finally Mycroft pulled back.

'Breakfast, Gregory.'

Greg pressed their lips together quickly before going to grab the toast.

'Eat,' he said a few minutes later, pushing a plate of cheese and tomato toast across the table.

'Spies don't eat.'

'And you're not a spy,' Greg said.

'Maybe I am,' Mycroft smiled.

Greg rolled his eyes. 'Eat or I'll slap you.'

'Ooh,' Mycroft said and picked up a piece of toast. He grinned over the cheese and tomato, Greg tutting. He stood to get the paper and Mycroft watched him go, enjoying his boyfriend's boxer-clad arse.

'Stop staring, your food will fall out,' Greg said when he came back.

'I can eat _and _stare at your arse, Gregory; it's a gift.' Greg slapped him with the paper and Mycroft smiled. 'So you _did _want to slap me.'

'I'll do it again.'

'Oh, please do.'

Greg chuckled and unrolled the paper, handing Mycroft the business section.

They mostly ate and drank in silence, sharing bits of the paper and smiling when they caught each other's eyes. When Mycroft started humming, Greg looked up from his second cup of coffee.

'What?' Mycroft asked.

'Green Day?'

Mycroft smiled and Greg stood to give him a kiss.

'You're perfect,' he whispered.

'I know,' Mycroft said. Greg slapped him again, Mycroft chuckled.

-oOo-

Greg had to get to work and Mycroft watched him dress, sitting on the bed, eyes never wavering.

'Aren't you getting changed?' Greg asked as he tucked his shirt in.

'I'm quite comfortable like this.'

'Oh, so you want Sherlock to see you in tracksuit pants?'

Mycroft frowned. 'Why would my brother see me?'

'He's coming over to pick you up.'

'Gregory...' Mycroft said slowly, standing as his boyfriend pulled on socks. 'Why is Sherlock picking me up?'

'Because I called him.'

'Why?'

Greg sighed and stopped to look at Mycroft. While they'd been happy all morning, Greg couldn't forget Mycroft's attitude before and during dinner. The man had been scared, angry, uncomfortable. There had been a kind of... Greg didn't even know how to explain the looks Mycroft got. His eyes had seemed glazy, faraway, like he wasn't in the world anymore. Greg knew it was part of why Mycroft had tried to kill himself and hated that Mycroft wouldn't talk to him about it.

'I called Sherlock while you were in the bathroom,' Greg said. 'I can't leave you alone, Myc.'

Mycroft's frown deepened. 'Why not?'

Greg looked down. 'You know why,' he said softly.

Mycroft felt anger clench his stomach tightly and he wanted to throw something. So Greg still didn't trust him. He still felt like Mycroft was going to kill himself the second he was alone. While there had been those moments since he'd got out of hospital, Mycroft didn't feel like that anymore, not with Greg. He hadn't felt like cutting himself or shooting up cocaine or _anything _since he and Greg had kissed on the couch.

But now... Mycroft just wanted to be alone.

He stepped past Greg to grab his bag and head for the bathroom, his boyfriend following him.

'Mycroft, come on, don't ignore me.'

'I'll be ready when Sherlock gets here,' Mycroft said and closed the door in Greg's face.

Greg sighed and thumped his forehead against the wall. This was why he hadn't brought up Mycroft's problems. He'd chosen to ignore them in favour of finally getting Mycroft into bed naked. Later he'd focused on getting Mycroft through dinner with his mother.

Their morning had been so nice, so easy, and now Mycroft was hiding in the bathroom. Greg didn't know if Mycroft was still suicidal. The man had seemed happy lately with Greg; he'd smiled and laughed and actually eaten without kicking up too much of a fuss. Now?

Greg sighed.

-oOo-

Sherlock could see the tension as soon as Greg opened the door. The DI grumbled a hello and turned to Mycroft. Mycroft hadn't spoken to him since going into the bathroom. He'd emerged in a suit, no waistcoat or tie, and he looked so gorgeous Greg was in danger of keeling right over. But Mycroft had ignored him completely, opting for sitting on the couch and staring blankly at the TV.

'Lestrade,' Sherlock nodded. 'John's in the taxi.'

Mycroft grabbed his bag and stepped to the door. He looked at Greg for a second before pecking him on the cheek. 'Thank you for having me.' And then he was gone, stepping down the stairs and entering the waiting taxi.

'What happened?' Sherlock asked.

Greg sighed. 'I told him I called you and that I was still worried about leaving him alone. He... didn't take it well.'

'I see,' Sherlock said. 'Thank you for letting him stay, Lestrade.'

'It was nice,' Greg said. 'Well, last night and this morning was nice.' He grabbed his keys and followed Sherlock from the flat.

'I'm sure this will blow over.'

Greg shrugged. 'Maybe.'

'It will, Gregory,' Sherlock said. 'Don't forget what I said; Mycroft loves you.'

'Yeah,' Greg said. 'Well I'll see you later.'

Sherlock watched him stalk away, coat drawn up and hands stuffed into his pockets. He sighed and joined his husband and brother in the car.

-oOo-

Mycroft was quiet until he got home after he and Sherlock dropped John off at work. The younger Holmes watched his brother quietly as he kissed his mother hello.

'We're going shopping, My,' Cam smiled.

'How lovely,' Mycroft said, eyes far away and lips pressed together. He dropped his bag in his room before re-joining them.

'Mummy, why don't you wait in Mycroft's car?' Sherlock asked.

Cam looked between her sons before nodding and disappearing, closing the door softly.

'What do you want?' Mycroft asked, rubbing his eyes.

'You and Lestrade had a fight.'

Mycroft looked at him carefully before saying, 'And?'

'He's your boyfriend.'

'And?'

'Why must you be so annoying?' Sherlock tutted. 'You love Gregory and yet you're pushing him away.'

'I am doing no such thing,' Mycroft said. 'We had a disagreement.'

'No, I'm guessing he spoke his thoughts and you stopped talking.'

'Yes, a disagreement.'

'Mycroft,' Sherlock sighed. 'Gregory loves you, he's worried about you.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'I'm fine.'

'No you're not.'

'Sherlock,' Mycroft scowled, 'I. Am. _Fine_.'

'Oh really?'

'Yes.'

It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. He shook his head and said, 'Mycroft... brother...' He sighed again. 'Greg worries about you, we all do, especially with everything that's happened. Don't push him away just because he cares. You need someone like him in your life. You need... you need _him_. Don't stop talking to him just because you're scared.'

'Me, scared? Of what?'

'Everything. Of not being needed, of being alone, of... life.' Sherlock looked at Mycroft carefully as he spoke. 'Don't push him away because you're scared.' He pulled his scarf back on. 'Mummy's waiting. I have some errands to run so she knows not to leave you alone. Now go.'

Mycroft scowled before grabbing his coat and heading out, Sherlock's thoughts swimming around his head.

-oOo-

They stopped for lunch and Mycroft let Cam talk, nodding and saying, 'Yes,' every time she paused for breath or changed topic. He kept checking his BlackBerry, hoping Greg would have texted to... what? Apologise? Did Mycroft want him to apologise?

Really Greg had no reason too, he'd just been worried. Mycroft hated that everyone thought he was so fragile, that they felt he needed to be under twenty-four hour watch. He guessed this was why Sherlock hated him; being followed really was annoying.

Mycroft stared at his plate of salad, not even slightly hungry. He wanted to talk to Greg, to call and ask how his day was so far. He wished he'd kissed him properly and said how much he cared. He didn't like this, didn't like fighting with the one man who made everything okay. It had only been a few hours but already Mycroft ached for the man, for even a message or phone call.

But what could Mycroft do? Should he say sorry? Should he do something? The longer Mycroft sat there, the more he realised he was being an idiot. Greg had just been worried. That was okay, wasn't it? They were partners; Greg had the right to be worried.

Mycroft picked up his BlackBerry and nodded along to whatever story his mum was telling him. He typed out a message before deleting it and trying again. Finally, after five minutes, he settled on a few words and hit send.

-oOo-

Greg yawned and sipped his coffee, pouring over yet another mountain of paperwork. He really wondered how there were any trees left in the world; surly Scotland Yard had cut them all down by now.

His mobile buzzed and Greg slid it open.

_I'm sorry._

_Mycroft_

Greg grinned. He'd been hoping to at least hear from Mycroft, even if it was to shout and fight some more. He worried Mycroft would drift back towards drugs or, god forbid, that he'd do something stupid like overdose again. He really didn't want Mycroft going back to that.

_Sorry about what?_

He knew it would annoy Mycroft to talk about the fight but he needed the man to know why he was upset. He needed Mycroft to know that it wasn't okay for the politician to bottle up his thoughts and feelings and lash out. Mycroft could talk to Greg, he could shout and curse and do anything as long as Greg knew what was bothering him.

_About fighting._

_Mycroft_

Greg tutted.

_Fighting about...?_

Greg finished another sheet of paperwork before he got a reply.

_What do you want me to say?_

_Mycroft_

Greg texted back while fiddling with his mug.

_I want you to tell me why you were upset, why you were hurt, and why you felt the need to ignore me for twenty minutes. I need you to be able to talk to me, Mycroft. Relationships are about communication. I don't care if you don't want to talk about it, you have to, because I care about you. So, tell me why you were mad._

He stared at his phone for five minutes, rolling his pen between his fingers. He decided he needed a cigarette.

_I'm sorry for fighting, Gregory, I never meant for that to happen. I was just upset that you feel the need to have me chaperoned by my brother. I am perfectly fine, believe me, and I am not going to start taking drugs again because of one small fight._

_I was annoyed that you didn't trust me to get home okay after you went to work. I know you worry about me as I worry about you and Sherlock and even John. I actually like that you worry about me, that someone like you could care about someone like me. Thank you for that and I hope you forgive me._

_But please know I can be left alone for ten minutes, even an hour, without feeling the need to shoot up. I don't need to, not now. I have you._

_Mycroft_

Greg felt his eyes water and wiped the tears away quickly. Mycroft had... he'd _actually _opened up. And he'd said how he felt! It was a miracle, really, and Greg re-read the message three times just to make sure he hadn't misinterpreted it.

_Thank you, Mycroft._

He smiled when he received a response.

_For what?_

_Mycroft_

Greg chuckled.

_For responding, for opening up, for being you. Thank you._

He sat his phone down and went to get more coffee, coming back to see it flashing.

_You're welcome._

_Mycroft_

Greg smiled.

-oOo-

Mycroft spent the rest of the afternoon following his mother from shop to shop and scowling. While Mycroft Holmes was a snappy dresser, he really didn't enjoy spending an hour in one shop looking at shirts. He had A for that.

Speaking of A, Mycroft had been texting her every five minutes trying to get a file to look at. He needed something, anything, to take away the boredom. He'd even resorted to texting his brother and demanding he come and take Cam. He got a short text that had him growling.

_Mummy loves you, Mycroft, and you need to spend more time with her. I'd hate to butt in._

_S_

He scowled at his BlackBerry as he stepped into his flat, holding five of his mother's bags.

'Hello, Mr Holmes.'

He looked up to see his assistant sitting at his table.

'Now dear, what have I told you about breaking into my flat?' he asked.

She smirked. 'I had a key, sir.'

He grinned at the file she had beside her coffee. 'And what is that?'

'A file for you to go over, sir, so you stop harassing my BlackBerry.'

'I apologise...'

'Anthea again, sir.'

'You seem fond of that name,' Mycroft said, setting down his mother's bags and picking up the file.

'It is a nice name,' Anthea said, looking away from her phone. 'How are you, sir?'

'Quite healthy.'

'Yes, you do look better,' Anthea nodded. 'I take it Gregory has something to do with that?'

Mycroft turned to look at her slowly. 'You know about Gregory?'

Anthea smiled. 'I could see the beginnings of mutual romance at the hospital, sir.'

'I see...' Mycroft said and cleared his throat.

'Also, surveillance has you two together a lot.'

Mycroft nodded. 'My superiors, have they asked anything?'

Cam chose that moment to walk in but Anthea didn't bother hiding anything.

'They have, sir, I have kept them informed on your need to... take some time off. They agree that stress can get the better of us.'

Mycroft knew Anthea had been keeping his attempted-suicide from his superiors and thanked her with a smile. Mycroft would be let go immediately if the Commonwealth knew the truth.

'Hello there, dear,' Cam smiled, dumping her bags near the kitchen.

'Hello, Mrs Holmes,' Anthea smiled. 'I am your son's personal assistant.'

'Does he work you hard?'

'Always,' Anthea said and stood. 'Sir, it was lovely seeing you but I'm afraid I must go.'

'Of course,' Mycroft nodded. 'Thank you, Anthea.'

'Not a problem.' She turned to Cam. 'A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Holmes.'

'You too, dear,' Cam smiled as Anthea left. 'She seems lovely.'

'She's fantastic,' Mycroft said and picked up the file. He looked at his mother.

'Oh go on, I can put these away.'

Mycroft smiled. 'Thank you, Mother.'

She smiled as he disappeared into his study.

-oOo-

Mycroft looked up when the door to his study opened. Greg slipped in and closed the door, smiling softly at Mycroft.

The politician was out of his chair immediately and across the room. He hesitated just before Greg, looking slightly lost.

'Hi,' Greg said.

'Hello,' Mycroft replied.

They stood staring at each other, neither quite sure what to do. They weren't fighting anymore but the argument was still fresh in both their minds.

Greg licked his lips. 'How's your day been?'

'Fine,' Mycroft said and looked down. 'My assistant brought over a file and I've been going over a few things.'

'Good, that's good,' Greg nodded. 'Keeping busy.'

'Of course,' Mycroft said. 'You?'

'Cases, paperwork, Sherlock being an arse.'

Mycroft smiled. 'So the usual.'

'Yup.'

They went quiet again, Mycroft staring at his shoes. Finally Greg stepped forward and slowly put his arms around Mycroft's waist. Mycroft blinked and looked up at him.

'Are you okay?' Greg asked.

'Of course.'

'I mean... after this morning. Are... are _we _okay?'

Mycroft smiled. 'Of course we are.'

'So why aren't we kissing?'

Mycroft chuckled and leaned forward, pressing his lips against Greg's. He sighed in content, arms wrapping around the DI and pulling him closer. Greg groaned and pulled Mycroft back until he thumped into the wall, Mycroft chuckling and pressing his body against Greg's. The wall was cold against Greg's back but he didn't care; Mycroft's lips more than warmed him up.

'Missed you,' Greg mumbled against Mycroft's lips. 'Did you miss me?' he asked when Mycroft didn't answer.

'Maybe,' the politician mumbled. He whined when Greg pulled away. 'Yes, yes, I missed you.'

'And?'

'And...?' Greg raised his eyebrows. 'I'm sorry.'

'About?'

'The fight,' Mycroft said. 'Didn't we go through this?'

'I want to hear it in person.'

Mycroft sighed but didn't pull away. 'I'm sorry I ignored you,' he said. 'I'm sorry I got so worked up over nothing. You care about me... that's nice.'

'Okay,' Greg said.

'I'm not used to people caring about me.'

'Sherlock cares about you; John cares about you... your _mother _cares about–'

'Yes, yes,' Mycroft cut him off. 'But only because of... of what happened.'

Greg realised they were going to skirt around the suicide attempt and not actually call it what it was. While Greg wanted to bring it up, he knew this would take time. Mycroft was only just beginning to eat more and open up with Greg; the DI had to take this slowly.

'They care about you, Myc, and so do I. You can talk to me.'

'I know.'

'So next time talk. Don't keep everything bottled up. Yell, throw a punch, do whatever you need to do. Just tell me how you feel, okay?'

Mycroft was silent, eyes raking over Greg. Finally he swallowed and said, 'Only if you do the same. I'll talk to you if you talk to me.'

''Course,' Greg smiled. 'So today I had some really bad coffee and Sally threw a stapler at me.' Mycroft groaned. 'Then Sherlock texted me and asked if I could get him a foot. I said no, he stalked Molly down at Bart's,' Mycroft buried his face in Greg's neck, 'then _John _called because he thought a patient of his was a serial killer and I went through a whole pack of smokes–'

Mycroft cut him off with a kiss, crushing their lips together. Greg smiled and dug his nails into Mycroft's back.

'I thought you wanted to hear about my day,' Greg murmured.

Mycroft smiled and reached past Greg to lock the door. 'Not right now.'

Greg chuckled. 'You make me feel seventeen.'

'That's disgusting.'

'Sexy.'

Mycroft shut him up with another kiss.

-oOo-

Mycroft and Greg joined Cam for dinner, each man rearranging their clothes. Cam chuckled as Mycroft sat across from her.

'So you two have made up?' Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Oh My, I could see you were fighting. So, I ask again; have you two made up?'

'Yes, Mother,' Mycroft sighed.

'Excellent,' Cam grinned. 'What are we having for dinner?'

'I don't know,' Mycroft said.

'We could get takeaway,' Greg said. Both Holmeses turned to look at him. 'What?'

'Take-away?' Cam asked, separating each word slowly.

'Yeah,' Greg nodded. 'You know; Chinese or Indian or Thai.'

'Sounds interesting,' Cam smiled. 'Go get some take-away, Gregory.'

'Mother, you might not like takeaway food.'

'Nonsense, I'm sure it'll be lovely,' Cam smiled.

'It's not what you're used to eating,' Mycroft tried again.

'It'll be fine,' Cam said.

There was silence and Greg cleared his throat. 'So, takeaway?'

'Yes,' Cam nodded.

'Chinese? Pizza? Indian?' Greg asked.

'Hmm,' Cam murmured.

'Chinese,' Mycroft said and his mother smiled.

'Okay,' Greg said and pulled out his mobile. 'I know a good place.'

-oOo-

Takeaway was a big hit with Cam even going so far as to get the number off Greg. Mycroft stared dumbfounded as his mother used chopsticks to pick food from her container. He'd never seen his mother eat from a container.

They ate in the lounge room, passing around containers and chatting about television programmes, politics, and crimes. Greg and Cam had a heated discussion about the proper way to handle evidence.

'Sherly is just so impulsive,' Cam tutted. 'He doesn't understand that you have to follow the proper procedure.'

'Tell me about it,' Greg said. 'I spend half my life making sure that man is kept out of prison. Do you know how many times he's broken the law? Breaking and entering, speeding, stealing evidence and possessions and... God, he'd make a great criminal.'

'Well thank God My took care of him,' Cam smiled.

Greg turned to look at Mycroft. 'What do you mean?'

'He has always been there for Sherlock,' Cam said, 'all through their childhood. Because My's ten years older, he could talk to Sherly about everything including their deductive skills. My had to go through all that alone but Sherly... he was very lucky, he _is _very lucky, to have such a great brother.'

Mycroft turned red and looked away. Greg reached out and took one of his hands. 'That's great,' he said. 'My brothers spent all their time choking me and stealing my clothes.'

Mycroft smiled and squeezed his hand. Greg's phone rang and they had to break apart, Cam smiling over her food.

'Lestrade,' he answered, biting a prawn. He spluttered and said, 'What? What the hell do you mean?' He paused, Mycroft and Cam staring at him. 'Right, right, I'll be right there... no, John, don't go in, you hear me? If you do I'll arrest you, I swear to God... right, see you soon.'

He cursed and hung up, dropping his container onto the coffee table.

'Gregory?' Mycroft asked.

'Sherlock's... fucking Sherlock,' Greg scowled. 'He's gone and broken into someone's flat.'

'Why?' Cam asked.

'Sherlock thinks he's the killer Dimmock's looking for and John's worried so I'm heading over.' He paused to give Mycroft a quick kiss. 'Hopefully I'll see you later.'

Mycroft nodded and kissed him back. 'Bye.'

'Bye,' Greg smiled.

Mycroft sighed as he watched Greg grab his coat and leave. He stabbed at his food, suddenly not hungry.

'He's a good man.'

'Pardon?' Mycroft said, looking up.

His mother smiled. 'Gregory is a good man,' she said. 'You're very lucky, My.'

'I know.'

'Make sure he knows it too,' Cam said before taking another bite of curry. 'This is delicious.'

Mycroft smiled.

-oOo-

Mycroft sat on the couch with his mother, Cam yawning as the night progressed. Sherlock and John were still out, no doubt stuck in some cell, leaving Cam to watch her son.

'Mother,' he said after Cam nearly nodded off for the tenth time. 'Mummy.'

'Mm?' she murmured.

'Go to sleep.'

Cam blinked. 'No, I'm alright.'

Mycroft smiled. 'Mother, I do not need you to watch me, please. Sherlock or John will no doubt be back shortly.'

Cam bit her lip and asked, 'Are you sure?'

'I am not watched every second of every day, Mother. I take bathroom breaks and actually sleep. I will have a shower and sleep in the guest room.'

'No, you take your room,' Cam said, 'I'll sleep in the guest room, Sherly and John can make do on the couch for the night.'

'I'm sure,' Mycroft nodded. 'Now go to sleep.'

Cam smiled and stood. She kissed her son on the cheek and said, 'Wake me if you need anything.'

'I'm fine, Mummy.'

'Sure, sure,' Cam said. 'Goodnight, My.'

''Night.' Cam raised an eyebrow and Mycroft said, 'What?'

'I've never heard you say anything other than goodnight,' Cam said. 'Gregory is rubbing off on you, dear.' She gave him another kiss and disappeared, leaving Mycroft to ponder.

-oOo-

Mycroft couldn't sleep without Greg, having grown used to having the man next to him every night. After his shower he padded around the flat, flicking through the file Anthea had given him again before settling back on the couch. There was nothing on TV so Mycroft put a DVD on, getting comfortable with a pillow and blanket.

-oOo-

Greg stepped into Mycroft's flat around three in the morning. Sherlock and John were both fine, apart from a cut to Sherlock's leg from a broken table. John was administering first aid and kisses at Greg's flat and Greg badly didn't want to be there when things progressed.

He'd hopped in a taxi and had been hoping Mycroft would still be awake. He got in with the key Sherlock had given him to find the TV on. He walked over and smiled when he saw Mycroft spread out on the couch, face pushed into the pillow and lips parted in sleep.

Greg sat and Mycroft woke immediately, shifting beneath the blanket to look at Greg.

'Hey, go back to sleep,' Greg whispered.

Mycroft yawned before smiling at him. 'Hello.'

'Hey,' Greg grinned and leaned down to kiss him.

'What's the time?'

'Just past three.' Mycroft yawned again and sat up. 'Hey, go back to sleep,' Greg repeated.

Mycroft smiled. 'How is Sherlock?'

'Little battered but okay; John's taking care of him.'

'Where are they?'

'Mine.'

'Oh,' Mycroft said. 'So we can sleep in my bed.'

'Yeah, why are you on the couch?' Mycroft fidgeted with the blanket. 'Myc?'

'I couldn't sleep without you,' Mycroft admitted. 'I missed you.'

'Yeah?' Mycroft nodded. 'I missed you too.' They kissed again before Greg was standing, flicking off the TV. 'Come on, bed.'

Mycroft pulled himself up and grabbed his pillow before following Greg down the hallway and to his bedroom.

Greg shed his clothes and asked, 'Can I have a shower?'

'Of course.'

Greg gave him another kiss before disappearing. Mycroft climbed into bed and yawned, wrapping the duvet around him. He was wide awake until Greg got in next to him. Mycroft hummed and wrapped his arms around Greg, pushing his face into the DI's chest.

'Sleep,' Greg whispered, running his fingers through Mycroft's hair. The politician was already asleep.


	20. Fight

**Chapter Twenty: Fight**

_Mycroft shivered as he drew the razor blade across his pale arm. More blood slipped down his skin, leaving a dark red line that mingled with others. His arm was a mess; long, deep cuts went from his wrist to his inner-elbow, joining already healed cuts and scars and track marks._

_Mycroft bit his lip as fresh waves of pain raked through his body. He had started this three months ago, just after his twentieth birthday. It was glorious, this feeling. It prickled his skin and made him burn, made him ache and feel... _human.

_Dropping the razor blade, Mycroft trailed a finger through the mess that was his arm. Warm liquid stuck to his finger tip and Mycroft smiled. He loved the look of it. He loved the pain and bumps and blood and _everything_. When the cuts healed they'd scab and Mycroft could pick at them, could itch and scratch until they bled again. When they scared... Mycroft loved the scars._

_There was a knock on the bathroom door and Mycroft blinked. He waited a minute until there was another lock and Sherlock called, 'My?'_

_Mycroft cursed silently and stood. He felt a wave of dizziness but ignored it in favour of sticking his arm under the hot water of the shower. He stifled a groan as the cuts ached, blood dripping down his fingers._

'_I'm in the shower, Sherlock,' Mycroft said._

'_How long?' his brother demanded._

_Mycroft looked down at the tiles, at the spots of blood draining away. 'Twenty minutes.'_

'_You've been in there an hour.'_

_Usually Mycroft was better at hiding this; he timed his showers perfectly. He was never in there more than half-an-hour, cleaning the razor blade, cutting his arm, cleaning up after himself. No one, not even Sherlock, knew what Mycroft did... well, the strange men he went home with knew but Mycroft didn't care about them._

_He wouldn't let Sherlock find out. He couldn't. This, the cutting, Mycroft knew it was a weakness. But he couldn't stop. It was safer then cocaine and alcohol. It took away the blackness and anger, it made Mycroft feel okay. It worked longer; the cutting, the welts, the scabbing, the scars... it was a high that lasted weeks. It helped when he was stuck at home for the holidays._

'_Mycroft!'_

_He blinked, realising he'd been lost in thought. 'I'll just be a minute, Sherlock!'_

_Mycroft heard his brother snort. 'What are you doing in there? Masturbating?'_

_Mycroft sighed. 'Yes, brother, that's what I'm doing.'_

_He could imagine Sherlock smirking. 'So a minute, then?'_

'_Go away!_

_Sherlock laughed before stomping away, leaving Mycroft to stand in his trousers, arm under the water. The blackness was still there but it was far away now. The pain... all Mycroft needed was the pain._

* * *

><p>Greg woke with Mycroft still wrapped around him and smiled. It was going on ten but Greg didn't mind; he wasn't expected at the Yard until midday.<p>

While Greg was more than happy to lie in bed for hours with Mycroft snuggling into him, he needed the bathroom and some food. He tried to get Mycroft's arms free without waking him but the politician was a light sleeper. He woke immediately and blushed.

'I'm sorry.'

'S'alright,' Greg shrugged. He kissed Mycroft before rolling from bed and heading for the bathroom. He got back to find Mycroft getting dressed. 'Hey, you can go back to bed.'

'No, it's okay,' Mycroft smiled, doing up the buttons of his silk shirt. 'Breakfast?' he asked.

Greg smiled. 'Sounds good.'

-oOo-

Cam was out with friends, leaving Mycroft and Greg to have breakfast alone. Greg was glad to see Mycroft's eating. He put away two cups of coffee and four slices of toast, forcing Greg to jump him so they were making out like teenagers when the front door opened. They broke apart to see Sherlock and John, Sherlock limping and John smiling.

'Hello,' the doctor said. 'Get some sleep, Greg?'

'Of course he did,' Sherlock grumbled. 'If he and my brother had had sex they wouldn't be all over each other.'

'Sherlock,' Mycroft scowled.

'Feeling okay, brother?'

'I should be asking you that.'

'I am fine,' Sherlock sniffed. 'A small cut is nothing to worry about.'

'I'm sure,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock glared. 'Come on girls, don't fight,' John said and poured himself a cup of coffee.

'You are hilarious, John,' Sherlock tutted and sat heavily.

'Well, I gotta go to work anyway,' Greg said, clearing his throat. He kissed Mycroft again. 'I'll see you later.'

'Of course,' Mycroft smiled. He kissed Greg softly before the DI headed out. Mycroft sighed when the door shut.

'What?' Sherlock asked.

'Nothing,' Mycroft muttered. He hated that Greg got to go to work and he didn't. He was looking at another day stuck in the flat with nothing to do. He'd already solved the problem Anthea had given him and didn't have anything interesting to read and television today made him want to smack his head against the wall.

Mycroft stood and placed his plate in the sink, avoiding John's and Sherlock's eyes. But Sherlock saw it; the anger, the annoyance that took over Mycroft and made him harm himself.

'Please excuse me,' Mycroft said and disappeared to his room.

John finished making himself and Sherlock some sandwiches, joining his husband at the table. 'Is he okay?' he asked.

'Of course,' Sherlock answered, mobile in hand.

_My brother needs something to do._

_SH_

He smiled at John and picked up half his sandwich. 'Thank you.'

John kissed him softly. 'No worries.'

Sherlock's mobile buzzed and he picked it up.

_Of course._

_A_

-oOo-

Twenty minutes later Mycroft was pouring over a thick stack of documents, twirling a pen between his long fingers and sipping from a mug of coffee. John chuckled as he turned back to Sherlock.

'You're a genius.'

'Like me, my brother needs to be kept busy,' Sherlock said. 'He's less angry when he's busy.'

John saw the worry on his husband's face. 'We'll get through this, Sherlock, okay? Greg will help him.'

'I hope so,' Sherlock sighed. John kissed him on the cheek.

-oOo-

Greg had to work and once again Mycroft found himself alone at night. He stayed in his study, refusing to come out for dinner. Sherlock shouted and even grabbed him but Mycroft stayed seated until his brother gave up.

Sherlock sighed as he sat at the table with John. Cam was still visiting, still joining her son's for breakfast and lunch, but she was staying with a friend tonight leaving the three men alone.

'No luck?' John asked.

'No.'

'He's done this before.'

'That's what I'm worried about.'

John looked over his plate. 'What do you mean?'

Sherlock sighed again and picked up his fork to play with his food. 'He's been happier since he and Lestrade got together. I thought... well, I guess I _hoped _that Mycroft would get better. But without work he's just... what if Greg isn't enough, John? What if Mycroft doesn't get better? What if...'

He trailed off and glared at his food, hurt and anger crossing his handsome face.

John reached across to link their fingers. 'Sherlock, they've only been together two weeks. Things will get better.'

'You can't know that.'

'I can hope,' John said. 'Look how much happier Mycroft's been, and Greg too. They're good for each other and I know they'll get through this.'

Sherlock swallowed. 'Do you really think so?'

'I do,' John nodded.

Sherlock smiled. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

They shared a soft kiss before eating.

-oOo-

Mycroft only ventured out of his study when he heard Sherlock and John retire to bed. He grabbed a blanket and pillow, once more settling on the couch. He felt angry and annoyed and hurt and... the blackness, it was there, working its way through his stomach.

He hated it; hated that he couldn't go one day without his boyfriend. He needed the man so much; he needed Greg to be there and be warm and comforting and... Mycroft just needed _him_. The darkness disappeared with Greg around. The world was easier, brighter, _good_. Mycroft hated that he couldn't survive without Gregory Lestrade.

He curled up on couch and stared into the dark, his breathing loud in his ears.

-oOo-

When Mycroft woke it was late, probably around two or three in the morning. His neck ached and he sat up to groan. There was a warm body pressed into his and after focusing Mycroft saw that it was Greg.

The DI was curled around him on the couch, snuggled up under the blanket with his face pressed into the pillow. Mycroft grinned and planted a soft kiss against Greg's lips, the DI shifting away under the touch.

'Hello,' he mumbled sleepily.

'When did you come in?' Mycroft asked.

'Dunno,' Greg yawned.

'Why didn't you wake me?'

'You're too cute when asleep.' Mycroft chuckled and got up. 'No,' Greg whined, 'comfy and warm.'

'Come to bed.'

Greg yawned again as Mycroft pulled him up. They shuffled into the bedroom and Greg managed to kick his shoes free before climbing into bed, not bothering to get undressed.

'I'm glad you're here,' Mycroft murmured.

'Yeah?' Greg asked.

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded. 'I feel better with you here.'

Greg smiled and kissed him. 'Good.'

Mycroft returned the smile and closed his eyes as Greg cuddled into him. Already the darkness was disappearing, replaced by Greg Lestrade's warmth.

-oOo-

They spent half the day in bed, Greg not having to go into work until late. Mycroft was happy to lie under the blankets and exchange soft, slow kisses with his boyfriend. They'd smile at each other and press closer together, ignoring their growling stomachs and bladders.

Finally Greg pulled back. 'Need the loo.'

'No.'

'Well you tell my bladder that.'

'I will.'

Greg chuckled. 'Come on, we need food and showers and toilets.'

Mycroft groaned but followed the DI from bed, pulling on a silk dressing gown.

-oOo-

Mycroft decided Greg was calling in sick and the DI was more than happy to let him. They retired back to Mycroft's bedroom, not coming out until dinner.

They shared a nice meal with Sherlock, John and Cam before agreeing to head to the DI's for the night. Mycroft and Greg changed into pyjamas before settling on the couch to watch TV and talk.

They exchanged stories about their time spent apart; Greg catching Mycroft up on Sherlock's breaking-and-entering and Mycroft talking about political arguments and wars that were about to break out.

When they fell into bed both men were happy, happy to be there with each other. Life was looking up for Mycroft Holmes. Everything was better with Greg.

-oOo-

Greg was called into work early and phoned Sherlock as he was getting dressed. The consulting detective still hadn't arrived by nine and Greg fidgeted with his phone.

'Gregory?' Mycroft questioned, lowering the paper he'd been reading.

'I have to go.'

'So go.'

'But...' Greg trailed off. He didn't want to fight with Mycroft again.

'Go,' Mycroft said, 'I'm fine, really. Sherlock will be here soon.'

'Okay,' Greg said, still looking worried.

'Go,' Mycroft repeated and stood to kiss his boyfriend. 'I'll be fine.'

Mycroft did seem okay and Sherlock _was _on his way. Plus Greg had taken the previous day off; he couldn't be late.

'Okay,' he finally said and grabbed his coat. 'Call if you need anything.'

'I will,' Mycroft said and followed him to the door. 'I promise, now go to work.'

Greg nodded and kissed him quickly. 'I'll see you later.'

Mycroft smiled, watching Greg go.

-oOo-

Sherlock dragged Mycroft to Baker Street for tea with Mrs Hudson. The "Not-Your-Housekeeper" force-fed both men biscuits and tea as she prattled on about whats-his-name and that-girl-with-the funny-ear. Sherlock smiled and shared his own stories as Mycroft groaned silently.

'Mycroft, how are you?'

Mycroft jumped. Having tuned out completely, he was surprised to find Sherlock and Mrs Hudson staring at him.

'Pardon?'

'How are you, dear?' Mrs Hudson asked.

'Oh, I'm fine thank you, Mrs Hudson.'

'Sherlock's taking care of you?'

'Of course,' Mycroft said and scowled at his brother. Sherlock smirked.

'Terrible business, being taken to hospital. I hate those places.'

'Mm,' Mycroft nodded.

'And how is Gregory?'

Mycroft jumped again. 'Gregory?'

'That lovely detective inspector you're seeing,' Mrs Hudson smiled. 'The handsome one with silver hair.'

'Oh,' Mycroft said. 'Gregory is fine.'

'Sherlock told me about you two,' Mrs Hudson said and Mycroft glared at his brother. 'I'm sure you make a handsome couple.'

All Mycroft could manage to say was, 'Yes.'

'He's quite a fox,' Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock snorted and Mycroft couldn't keep back the groan.

-oOo-

'You hate me,' Mycroft muttered when they finally left.

'I do not,' Sherlock began before smirking. 'Okay, maybe I do.'

One of Mycroft's cars pulled up and they climbed in, Mycroft ignoring his brother. He needed... he needed Greg after a lunch like that. He needed his boyfriend's warmth and smile and...

Greg was working, Mycroft couldn't have him. But he could have the next best thing.

-oOo-

'Why are we here?' Sherlock asked as they stepped into Greg's flat.

'Because I want to be here,' his brother answered.

'Why?'

'Because I like it here.'

'Your flat is bigger,' Sherlock commented as he fell onto the couch.

'And?'

'And nothing,' Sherlock shrugged.

'You don't have to be here,' Mycroft said.

'Yes I do.'

'Do you think Gregory is stashing cocaine in his cupboards?' Mycroft asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Yes, that's what I'm worried about, brother. Perhaps Gregory is secretly a drug addict and _I _didn't see it.' He snorted and flicked on the TV.

'So you're just going to sit there all day?' Mycroft asked.

'Yup,' Sherlock said, popping the p.

Mycroft sighed.

'All day,' Sherlock said.

'Fine.'

'Fine.'

'Fine,' Mycroft repeated and disappeared to the bedroom.

'Fine!' Sherlock shouted and grinned when Mycroft swore at him.

-oOo-

Greg got home around midnight tired, sore and hungry. He rubbed his aching head and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, downing it in a few gulps. It took him a minute to realise the TV was on and there was light creeping from under the bathroom door.

He turned slowly and went into the living room. Sherlock Holmes was asleep on the couch, snoring softly with his phone gripped in one hand. Greg raised his eyebrows before going down the hallway, flicking the bathroom light off on his way to the bedroom.

Mycroft was curled up under the blankets asleep, face pressed into one of Greg's pillows. Greg smiled and placed his beer bottle on the dresser before disappearing back to the bathroom.

He showered and brushed his teeth before going back to the bedroom. Mycroft was still asleep and stayed that way, even when Greg climbed under the covers and kissed him softly. He smiled and closed his eyes.

-oOo-

Mycroft and Sherlock spent Cam's last day shopping. The boys tried not to complain too much and even managed to keep their bickering to a minimum. After another few hours of shopping they all had dinner, Greg joining them.

'I've missed you two so much,' Cam said at the door, giving her sons a hug each. 'Don't be strangers, okay?'

'Yes, Mummy,' Sherlock said.

'Have a safe trip,' Mycroft said.

Cam smiled. 'My, take care of yourself, okay?'

'I will.'

She moved past Mycroft to hug John and then Greg. 'Take care of him,' she whispered in the DI's ear.

''Course,' he said.

'It was a pleasure meeting you, Gregory.'

'You too,' Greg smiled.

She hugged her sons again before leaving. Mycroft and Sherlock were pretty wiped and they all retired to bed, Greg staying over. They fell into Mycroft's bed kissing, Greg moaning into his boyfriend's mouth.

'Missed your room,' he whispered.

Mycroft chuckled. 'Mm, me too.'

Greg smiled and pulled Mycroft's shirt off before attacking a nipple, tongue swirling around the nub and making Mycroft gasp. He palmed Mycroft's erection through his silk pyjama pants, Mycroft pushing up into the touch.

'Greg,' he moaned. 'Please.'

Greg shifted back to pull at his own shirt, watching Mycroft pull his bottoms clear. He smiled and leaned forward to wrap his lips around Mycroft's cock, tonguing the slit and licking pre-come away.

'God, Greg,' Mycroft moaned.

'I _am _all powerful,' Greg said after Mycroft fell from him with a wet pop.

'Yes, you are,' Mycroft said. 'You control my pleasure so please find it in your heart to continue.'

Greg smirked and took Mycroft in his mouth again, hollowing his cheeks and licking strips along the underside of the politician's cock.

'God,' Mycroft murmured and closed his eyes, gripping his own thighs. Greg expected whining when he drew back but Mycroft pushed him onto the bed and pulled down his pants. Greg bit his lip when Mycroft sucked on his own cock, watching his boyfriend's pink lips slide up and down his shaft.

'You're good at... at that,' Greg grunted as he looked.

Mycroft smiled around him and pressed a hand to Greg's stomach, raking his nails across the soft skin.

Greg continued to moan and cuss until Mycroft pulled back, the politician knowing when Greg was reaching a climax. He grabbed for the condoms and lube only to find both gone.

'What?' Greg asked when Mycroft froze.

'I... the condoms are gone.'

'What?' Greg said, sitting up.

Mycroft swore. 'Sherlock must have taken them.'

'Oh,' Greg said and rubbed sweat from his eyes. 'I guess... I guess we have to stop.'

Both men stared at each other, panting, erections hard and heavy.

Greg swallowed and said, 'Fuck.'

Mycroft sighed and sat back on the bed. He and Greg hadn't had sex in... 24 hours. While that wasn't usual for most couples, or them, Mycroft desperately needed to be inside Greg.

'We... we could just have sex,' Mycroft said.

Greg raised his eyebrows. 'We don't have any condoms.'

'So?'

'We... Myc, we've only been together two weeks.'

'I'm clean,' Mycroft said. Greg bit his lip and Mycroft said, 'Gregory, I am, I wouldn't lie. Besides, you've already...' he trailed off and gestured at his cock.

Greg knew what he was saying; the DI had already given Mycroft blow-jobs without using a condom. It really was too late now.

And besides, Greg trusted Mycroft. If the man wasn't clean he would have said.

'Okay,' he said.

Mycroft looked at him. 'Really?'

'Yeah,' Greg nodded. 'I trust you.'

Mycroft smiled and leaned forward. They kissed softly before Mycroft was pushing Greg onto his back, the DI shuffling up the bed to rest against the pillows. Mycroft wrapped a hand around Greg's cock and found the DI was still hard.

'What are we going to do for lube?' Mycroft asked, pulling back and raising an eyebrow. Greg grinned and sat up to lick at Mycroft's cock, spreading saliva and making Mycroft moan.

'This is undignified,' Mycroft murmured as Greg pulled back. 'But I can't bring myself to care.'

'Is it because you have a handsome DI to fuck?' Greg asked.

Mycroft chuckled and grabbed his legs, hooking them around his waist. 'Mm, maybe.' He kissed Greg softly before pushing in.

'Oh,' Greg moaned, closing his eyes and relaxing as Mycroft entered him completely. It was different without a condom, more personal and wet and... and God was it good.

They stilled for a minute to press their lips together, Greg sucking Mycroft's tongue between his lips. 'Gonna move?' he asked when he'd let Mycroft go.

Mycroft smiled and pulled back. He set a soft, steady rhythm, wanting the pleasure to last as long as possible. Greg groaned beneath him and grabbed the headboard, cock bobbing along his stomach as Mycroft pushed in.

'God, Mycroft,' he moaned, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut.

Mycroft stared at him as he thrust, nothing looking more beautiful than Gregory Lestrade strung out on pleasure. Mycroft still couldn't quite believe that he was allowed to do this; that someone like him had Greg.

Mycroft grabbed Greg around the waist and the DI yelped as he was pulled up. Without slipping or fumbling, Mycroft fell back onto the mattress and took Greg with him. Greg started moving as soon as he was seated, drawing himself up and down, hands splayed along Mycroft's chest.

'Fuck, Myc,' he murmured before kissing him, Mycroft thrusting up.

They continued for minutes or days, maybe weeks or months, neither could think straight. Suddenly Mycroft was forcing himself up faster and he grabbed Greg's cock to pull in time with their thrusts.

Greg groaned and pushed himself forward and back, fucking Mycroft's hand as Mycroft fucked him. His eyes closed slowly as an orgasm grew closer and closer until Greg was coming with a curse, shooting across Mycroft's hand and chest.

He kept moving to bring Mycroft to climax, feeling warm liquid spill deeply into him when Mycroft pushed up, lifting his hips and Greg off the bed. He dropped with a long sigh, panting heavily as Greg rolled off him.

They laid next to each other for a few minutes trying to catch their breath, Greg feeling come leak from him every time he moved.

'Gotta change the sheets,' he murmured. Mycroft chuckled. 'And have a shower.'

'Another one? What a waste of water.'

'Well you're the one who forgot condoms.'

'Mm,' Mycroft murmured.

They stayed there for a few minutes before Greg sat up. 'Come on, shower.'

'I'm quite alright here.'

'We're all sticky.'

'Mmf.'

Greg rolled his eyes and pulled on Mycroft's arm after scrambling off the bed. 'Myc, come on.'

'No.'

'Mycroft.'

'Nope.'

'I'll slap you.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'Fine, fine.' He hauled himself from bed and wrapped his arms around Greg's shoulders, the older man dragging him across the room.

'You're a child.'

Mycroft smiled as he shut the bathroom door.

-oOo-

Anthea had another file sent over when Mycroft started going insane with boredom. Sherlock checked in on him every few minutes to see Mycroft bent over his desk, flipping through documents and making notes.

It made Sherlock happy to see his brother like this; to see Mycroft absorbed with work. And he was happy with Greg; that relationship was good and strong. It still killed Sherlock that he hadn't seen how depressed his brother was. He'd missed all the signs that Mycroft was a drug addict, that he hated life and wanted to die.

Sherlock would never forgive himself for missing how unhappy Mycroft was.

-oOo-

Mycroft's BlackBerry buzzed and it took a minute to tear his eyes away from the paper he was looking at. His heart leapt when he saw it was Greg and he answered quickly.

'Gregory, hello.'

'_I thought you weren't going to answer._'

'Is that any way to great your boyfriend?'

Greg tutted. '_My apologise, Mr Holmes. Mycroft, darling, sweetness, how are you this fine evening_?'

Mycroft chuckled and said, 'Gregory, please.'

'_Sorry, did you want me to add love?_'

'Gregory.'

'_Honey_?'

'Please stop.'

'_Most wonderful, beautiful man_?'

'Greg!'

'_Blah, blah,_' the DI said and Mycroft chuckled. '_Now, _darling–' Mycroft smiled, '– _how are you this evening_?'

'I'm fine,' Mycroft said. 'My assistant had some documents delivered so I'm keeping busy.'

'_Good, I'm glad._'

'If only John would let me go back to work I'd be happy.'

Greg sighed. '_Mycroft_–'

'Why are you calling?' Mycroft asked, cutting him off. He didn't want to fight again. 'Was it just to say how much you miss me?'

Greg paused before saying, '_No, I was thinking we could have dinner and you could stay at mine again._'

'Really?'

'_I like being with you, is that so weird_?'

'Yes.'

'_Don't make me slap you._'

'You really like doing that, don't you?'

'_I'm ignoring that_,' Greg said. '_I know most couples don't see each other every day but you're really hard to resist. If I'm being overly-caring or if I'm smothering you please tell me now_.'

'What? Gregory, no, of course not.'

'_Really_?'

'I miss you every second you're away,' Mycroft admitted. 'I don't care if that's strange. I...' He wanted to say he loved Greg, that he wanted him around every minute of every day. But he cleared his throat and said, 'I like being with you.'

'_Really_?'

'Of course.'

'_Good, 'cause I like being with you too._'

Mycroft smiled. 'So dinner and bed?'

'_Well, we'll be in bed but not sleeping._'

'Sleep is important.'

'_Is not_.'

'Yes it is.'

'_Who says that_?' Greg asked.

'Everyone,' Mycroft said.

'_Well everyone's stupid_.' Mycroft chuckled. '_Come by mine around seven? I'll cook just for you._'

Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat. Greg actually trusted him enough to let him come over alone. He smiled.

'_Myc_?'

'Yes,' Mycroft managed. 'I'll see you then.'

'_Excellent. I gotta go, Sally's giving me the evil eye._'

Mycroft chuckled. 'Go back to work, Gregory. I'll see you soon.'

'_Bye_.'

-oOo-

Mycroft stepped out of his car with another bag of things. Greg answered the door before he could knock.

'A bit eager, aren't you?' Mycroft asked.

'Shut up,' Greg tutted and pulled him in for a kiss. Mycroft hummed as they broke apart. 'Did you bring pyjamas?' Greg asked, nodding at the bag.

'Yes,' Mycroft scowled.

Greg grinned and pulled him in. 'Now, you sit and get comfortable while I finish cooking.'

'You're cooking?' Mycroft asked.

'Yes.'

'For me?'

'And me.'

'That's... thank you.'

Greg smiled. 'Now worries. Go on, drop your stuff in the bedroom.' He gave Mycroft another kiss and pushed him away.

Mycroft kicked off his shoes and shed his jacket and waistcoat, settling on Greg's couch to go through the documents again. Greg pottered around the kitchen, tasting gravy and flipping chicken. He hummed under his breath as he worked, spying Mycroft as he did and smiling.

Finally dinner was done and Greg put the plates on the table. 'Myc?'

Mycroft didn't hear him. He was hunched over the coffee table, flipping through papers at warp speed.

'Mycroft?'

This time he got a murmur.

'Mycroft, come on, dinner.'

'In a second,' Mycroft said.

Greg tutted and stood next to him. 'Mycroft.'

'Yes?'

'Dinner.'

'In a minute, Gregory.'

Greg grabbed the files and flipped them shut.

'What are you doing?' Mycroft demanded.

'It's time for dinner.'

Mycroft glared at him. 'There are country secrets in those documents!'

'So? I'm not looking.'

'That's not the point.'

'What _is _the point?'

'The point is that I said in a minute and I meant in a minute!' Mycroft shouted.

Greg stared at him, eyes widening. He dropped the files on the coffee table and said, 'My apologies.'

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes. 'Gregory...'

'No, no, it's fine,' Greg said. 'I just made dinner and everything after working all day but forget me.' He went into the kitchen and sat heavily, sipping his beer. Mycroft stayed on the couch, looking through the archway at him.

Greg was halfway through his beer before Mycroft moved, standing to join his boyfriend.

'Gregory.'

The DI didn't say anything and kept his eyes down, even when Mycroft sat beside him.

'Gregory, please.'

Greg sucked down another mouthful of alcohol.

'Greg, please look at me.'

'Why, you gonna yell again?'

'I'm sorry.' Greg snorted. 'Really, I am,' Mycroft said. 'I just... I don't know.'

'You don't know why you yelled?'

'Not really, no,' Mycroft said. Finally Greg looked at him. 'I just... I haven't been to work in so long and I'm bored, Greg. I have nothing to do all day. You get to go to work and so does my brother and even John. What do I do? I get stuck shopping with my mother. I don't want to spend my days shopping and sitting at home. I...' he sighed. 'I'm sorry.'

Greg looked down.

'You believe me, don't you?'

'Yeah.'

'Then why do you look so upset?'

'You yelled at me.'

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft said again.

'Yeah,' Greg repeated.

'Greg, please,' Mycroft said. 'Please don't look so... sad.'

'Well I am.'

'I know. I didn't mean to yell.'

'Mm.'

'Greg.'

Greg looked at him. 'Yeah, okay,' he said. 'I... yeah, I forgive you.'

'Really?' Greg nodded. 'Okay,' Mycroft murmured. He pulled his plate forward and looked at it. 'Thank you for cooking for me.'

'You're welcome.'

'It looks delicious.'

'Then you better eat it all.'

Mycroft gave Greg a hesitant smile and began eating, the DI watching him carefully.

-oOo-

Things were still a little weird the next morning but they kissed goodbye. Mycroft watched his boyfriend leave for work and sighed as he climbed into his car. He really didn't know why he'd yelled. He'd just been upset that Greg had taken the documents. When he worked Mycroft was used to being in charge, to being in control and listened to. Even in his private life he was the one telling people what to do; he told Sherlock how to live his life, he told his mother when he'd be home for Christmas.

But now he had someone he had to listen to; someone who's opinion counted just as much as Mycroft's. Greg had every right to take the file and tell Mycroft to eat. It was just taking Mycroft a while to get used to it.

He leaned against the door and stared out the window, stomach churning. He didn't want to fight with Greg, not again. But he couldn't push away the anger, the hurt, the... whatever it was that plagued him day in and day out. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it.

-oOo-

John had pulled babysitting duty and sat on the couch reading, catching up on his blog, and making sure Mycroft didn't do something stupid.

The doctor noticed Mycroft's mood immediately. While he wasn't shouting or scowling, he just looked... angry, much like when he'd woken up in the hospital. John badly wanted to ask but he didn't have Sherlock or Greg as back up if Mycroft got violent. John had been stuck with recovering junkie's before and most of the time they got violent.

'Lunch?' John asked around midday.

Mycroft now slipped into scowling mode and said, 'I'm not hungry.'

'Mycroft–'

'Please excuse me,' Mycroft cut him off. He locked himself in his study.

John sighed and picked up his phone.

'_Lestrade_.'

'Hey, Greg, it's John.'

'_How are you_?'

'Not bad,' John said, fidgeting with his tea.

'_And Mycroft_?' John sighed. '_John, what is it_?'

'Well...' John began slowly. 'Do you have time to talk?'

'_Yes, now what's wrong_?'

'He hasn't been shouting or crying or anything,' John said, 'he's just been... you know when Sherlock gets all moody and sulky?'

'_Yeah_.'

'That's Mycroft now,' John said. 'He won't eat anything or talk. He's just been flipping through some file and glaring at the TV. He kind of has the same look on his face as when he woke up in hospital or when Sherlock found all those drugs in his flat. Like... like the world's become too much.'

Greg sighed.

'Did you guys fight?'

'_Yeah_,' the DI said. '_He was reading that file and I took it from him 'cause I'd made dinner. He shouted at me and then apologised but things have been a little weird. We kissed goodbye and everything but... just weird._'

'Maybe you should talk to him.'

'_Fat lot of good that'll do,_' Greg said. '_I've tried, John, but he just clamps up and refuses to talk_.'

'We can't just keep avoiding the matter,' John said. 'He's never gonna get better if he doesn't admit he tried to kill himself.'

'_We've only been together two weeks_.'

'But it's different,' John said. 'Like me and Sherlock; your relationship is different, Greg. It's not like you and Mycroft haven't been through a lot.'

'_I know_.'

'You have to talk to him or things will just get worse. You don't want him pushing you away, do you?'

'_No_,' Greg muttered.

'So talk to him,' John said. 'Even if you both shout it'll be good for Mycroft; he has to know that he can't keep lying about his problems. It's the only way he'll get better.'

Greg sighed again. '_Fine, fine. I'll come over when I finish work_.'

'I'll make myself scarce.'

'_Thanks, John_.'

'No worries.'

-oOo-

Mycroft knew something was up as soon as Greg arrived at his flat. John smiled at the DI before grabbing his coat and heading out. Mycroft leaned against the doorframe of his study, arms folded as the door shut.

'What is it?'

'Why do you assume something's wrong?' Greg asked. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and his boyfriend sighed. 'Mycroft, we need to talk.'

'About?' Mycroft prompted.

'You.'

Mycroft licked his lips slowly, heart beating painfully in his chest. 'Why?'

'Mycroft,' Greg sighed again. 'We need to talk about everything that's happened.'

Mycroft was silent, staring at Greg with cold eyes. Greg could already see him shutting down, hiding away.

'You have problems, Myc,' Greg said, 'and we can't keep pretending you don't.'

'I'm fine.'

'No you're not.' Greg took his coat off and put it on the rack. He leaned against the kitchen counter and ran a hand through his hair. 'You tried to kill yourself.' Mycroft was silent. 'I want to talk about why.' He looked up to see Mycroft's steady, cold gaze on him. The politician hadn't moved. 'I want you to tell me why you thought it was a good idea; why you decided life was too much.'

Mycroft looked away.

'Don't shut down on me,' Greg begged, 'please, I'm just trying to understand.'

'There's nothing to understand,' Mycroft finally said.

'I care about you.'

'If you did you'd leave me alone.'

'Damn it, Mycroft, don't do this; don't pretend you're okay.'

'I am.'

Greg pushed off the counter and approached Mycroft. His boyfriend tensed, eyes fixed on the wall. 'I want to know why you did it and why you take drugs; why you cut yourself and why you're so depressed. Please, Myc, I'm just trying to understand.'

'I'm fine.'

'Stop saying that!'

'Then stop asking!'

'Why won't you tell me?' Greg demanded.

'There's nothing to tell!'

'Nothing to tell?' Greg said, dangerously close to shouting. Mycroft looked at him and Greg could see it; the cold, angry darkness that he seemed to carry everywhere. 'Mycroft, you're a drug addict! You cut yourself and drink and smoke and... and you're always so angry!'

He took a deep breath to try and calm himself down.

'I care about you, Mycroft, and you've been happier since we got together; I can see that. But sometimes you... you just look like you don't want to live anymore. I don't want you to think life's become too much. You _can _talk to me.'

Mycroft was silent as Greg stopped talking, both men staring at each other. Mycroft could feel anger coursing through his veins. He didn't want to talk about himself, he didn't want Greg to know that he was so dark, so angry, so utterly hopeless. He didn't want Greg to see what a messed up, awful man he really was. The DI would leave; Mycroft didn't want him to leave.

'I'm fine.'

'No you're not!' Greg shouted. 'Why won't you talk to me?'

'There's nothing to talk about!' Mycroft shouted back. He pushed past Greg and headed for the kitchen, hands clenched by his side. He needed a drink, something to calm down. He needed Greg to stop asking; Mycroft wouldn't, no, he _couldn't_ talk about it. He never talked about himself, ever. Nobody had ever cared.

'Mycroft.'

'No.'

'Don't you walk away from me,' Greg said, following him. Mycroft stared at the cupboards, knowing Sherlock had taken his alcohol. Fresh anger spread through his body and he gritted his teeth. 'Talk to me.'

'No.'

'Mycroft.'

'NO!'

He turned to see Greg standing by the kitchen table, arms folded, eyes narrowed. 'I'm not going anywhere, Mycroft. We're going to talk about you, okay? I'm not going to keep sweeping everything under the carpet. I care about you too much.'

He didn't. If Greg cared he'd see that Mycroft couldn't talk, couldn't admit to feeling so weak and vulnerable. He couldn't.

Mycroft shook his head. Everything felt wrong. He and Greg had been going so well; Mycroft had been happy. He wasn't happy now. The blackness swallowed him until he couldn't think straight. His head hurt, his heart, everything hurt so much. The familiar depression seeped right into his brain until Mycroft could barely breathe.

Greg sighed and turned away, rubbing his eyes. 'Myc, please,' he begged. 'I just want to–'

A door slammed shut and Greg turned. Mycroft was gone.

-oOo-

He called Mycroft twenty times before phoning Sherlock and John. When they arrived Greg explained what had happened, getting angrier and angrier the longer he talked until he snapped.

'This is all your fault!' Greg shouted, rounding on John.

'What?' the doctor gasped.

'You told me to talk to him!' Greg shouted. 'You told me to have it out! And now look, he's gone! What if he overdoses again? Or jumps off a bridge? Or cuts his fucking arm open?'

John swallowed and Sherlock glared at him.

'Greg, calm down,' John tried.

'No!' the DI shouted. 'If he hurts himself I'll fucking kill you!'

'Greg, come on,' John said.

Greg took a step forward but Sherlock got in the way.

'Move,' Greg said.

'No.'

'_Move_.'

'No,' Sherlock repeated.

'GET OUT OF THE WAY!' Greg shouted.

Sherlock just stared at him. 'Greg, you're upset, you're worried, but this isn't John's fault. And if you even so much as try to hit my husband I will be forced to hurt you.'

Greg swore but turned away, running his hands through his hair. 'I need a cigarette,' he scowled.

Sherlock tossed him a packet and watched Greg light it before turning to John.

'You okay?' John asked.

'No,' Sherlock admitted. 'I need... John, I need to go look for him.'

'Do you know where he might be?'

'I can try the Diogenes Club,' Sherlock said, 'or his office, maybe some of the cafe's he goes to. But I don't want to leave you here with Greg.'

'I'll be fine.' Sherlock eyed him and John kissed his cheek. 'Really, Sherlock, I'll be alright. I invaded Afghanistan, remember?'

Sherlock managed a small smile before kissing his husband. 'I'll call if I find him.'

'Okay,' John nodded and watched Sherlock leave. He turned to look at Greg, the DI having fallen to sit. He sucked back on his cigarette angrily and tapped the table.

-oOo-

It was worse than the first time. This time Greg knew without a doubt that he loved Mycroft Holmes. And he knew that Mycroft at least cared about him. Did Mycroft love him? Greg didn't know. That didn't matter, not at the moment.

He dialled Sherlock again only to receive a short and very annoyed shout that the younger Holmes was doing all he could. John sighed and said, 'Greg, we'll find him.'

Greg cursed and threw his phone on the table, the Nokia skidding across the varnished surface.

'I can't lose him, not now,' Greg said.

'I know.'

'I love him so much,' Greg choked, tears threatening to break free.

'I know, Greg,' John said. 'I know.' Like in all stressful moments, John was calm and collected; the soldier and doctor in him wouldn't allow the man to collapse under the fear. Greg thanked God for the presence of John Watson.

Greg was about to call Sherlock again when he realised the most obvious solution; Anthea. The woman had found Mycroft before, she could do it again.

The PA answered on the second ring.

'Mycroft's gone.'

She hung up immediately and Greg waited, watching the hands on his watch tick by mockingly. Each second was bringing Greg closer to a meltdown. Mycroft could be hurt. He could be drunk or high or–

The DI's phone buzzed and he slid it open to read the text.

_Mycroft is at your flat._

_A_

'He's at mine,' Greg said and grabbed his coat.

'Should I come?'

Greg hesitated before nodding.

They took a cab and Greg opened his door with shaky fingers. He ran in, followed closely by John. They didn't have to look far.

Mycroft was sitting in the kitchen, back to the sink and steak knife in his right hand. His sleeves had been rolled up and his left arm was a bloody mess.

Greg couldn't stop the tears as he fell to crouch by his boyfriend. 'Myc?' he whispered.

Mycroft looked up at him. His eyes were red and wet, tears streaking down his face. 'I'm sorry,' he said and closed his eyes. 'Greg, I'm so sorry. I couldn't... I... I...'

'S'okay,' Greg said. 'It's alright, Mycroft.'

'I couldn't stop,' Mycroft whimpered. 'I'm... sorry.'

'Can...' Greg swallowed, '... can I have the knife?'

The politician nodded and John took it with calm hands. He took a tea towel from Greg's sink and wet it before crouching down to dab at Mycroft's arm. The blood came away to reveal at least twenty cuts, ranging in size and depth. They lined Mycroft's arm, ugly reminders that Mycroft couldn't always control the anger, the darkness that he felt.

Reminders that Greg hadn't been able to stop him.

Greg pulled Mycroft in for a hug as John cleaned him up, Mycroft whimpering and crying into his boyfriend's chest.

'It's okay,' Greg said, even though he didn't feel it.

'Don't leave,' Mycroft begged. 'Please, Gregory, don't leave me.'

'I won't.'

'I need you,' Mycroft whispered.

'I'm not going anywhere, Myc,' Greg said. 'I promise.'

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note: Okay, another chapter for my lovelies. I am off for the weekend with no internet access so I'll hopefully get another few chapters written. If so, expect an update Sunday or Monday depending what part of the world you live in due to time differences.<strong>_

_**So yes, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next will actually have Mycroft opening up again. There will be another crash, some more darkness, but I promise to aim for a happy ending. Probably only a few more chapters of this story left.**_

_**Cheers and please feel free to review, I'm almost at a hundred! Crazy, huh?**_

_**I live to entertain.**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_


	21. Talk

**Chapter Twenty-One: Talk**

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note: Warnings for Mycroft acting very OOC. But I think it's understandable. If you disagree, well... too late now, ain't it?<strong>_

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><p><strong>Beta for this chapter: chasingriver<strong>

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><p><em>Mycroft sat at the dining table, picking at his breakfast. He wasn't hungry, he was more focused on his injured arm. He could feel the scabs scratching against the soft cotton of his shirt. They itched like mad, begging to be scratched and picked. It took all of Mycroft's willpower not to rip them open and watch fresh blood ooze down his arm.<em>

_Mummy was chatting to the maid, gossiping about Mr Dow and Mrs Fitzpatrick, bright blue eyes wide with happiness. Sherlock was attacking his grapefruit like it had personally offended him; sending fruit flying with each stab down. It made the ten-year-old smile in delight, no doubt having been running some type of weird experiment involving forks and fruit._

_Neither Sherlock nor Mummy noticed Mycroft's lack of eating or the way he held his left arm close. If they did... well, they obviously didn't care. A small part of Mycroft (a very, very small part), wished Sherlock would use his blossoming deductive capabilities to shout about what Mycroft was doing to himself. He wanted Mummy to cry and beg Mycroft to ask why he was doing it. He wanted..._

_He wanted them to worry._

_But they were acting as though everything was fine, as though the world wasn't a dark, black pool of shit. Mycroft's eyes flickered between them, anger building behind his eyes until he could take it no more._

_He stood suddenly and bit his lip when neither Sherlock nor Mummy looked at him. He sneaked from the dining room, already scratching at his arm. Sharp stabs of pain shot through his body and Mycroft groaned._

_That was what he needed; the pain. This pain, any pain. It made him feel alive, made him feel human._

_Okay, so Mummy and Sherlock hadn't noticed or cared. That was fine, Mycroft didn't need to talk. Not when he saw the spots of blood appear on his crisp white shirt. He smiled slightly._

_He didn't need to talk._

_He had the pain._

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><p>Greg woke around ten and shifted in bed, stretching to work some feeling back into his arms. He'd been holding Mycroft tight all night and sat up to yawn.<p>

Mycroft made no movement and Greg leaned over him to look at the politician's face. The taller man was sleeping peacefully, face smooth and free of anger, of hurt and darkness and... he just looked so nice, so wonderful.

Greg sighed and rolled from bed, standing and hearing his back crack. He didn't know what to do; did he wake Mycroft and demand an explanation? Did he force the younger man to talk?

Greg couldn't do that, not yet. Mycroft had looked so fragile last night; like the world was closing in on him and he didn't know what to do. Greg remembered John cleaning and bandaging his wounds before Greg dragged him to bed, Mycroft curling up and crying himself to sleep.

The DI swallowed, trying to keep back his own tears. He'd hated seeing Mycroft like that and remembering it was no better. He had been... God, Greg had never seen someone that broken before.

He rubbed his eyes before slipping from the room, deciding to let Mycroft sleep. When the man woke Greg would let Mycroft go at his own pace; he wouldn't demand answers, he'd wait for Mycroft to talk.

Greg padded out into the living room to find Sherlock and John on the couch. The Doctor was asleep but Sherlock was wide awake, hair frazzled and eyes dark from not sleeping. His head immediately turned, pale blue eyes settling on Greg.

'He's still asleep,' Greg murmured before heading into the kitchen. He came back with two cups of coffee and handed one to Sherlock, who thanked him with a nod. John was curled up around the consulting detective, Sherlock stroking his short hair. 'I think... we should just wait.'

'Yes,' Sherlock said softly, voice so lost and worried.

Greg swallowed a mouthful of coffee and settled back into his armchair, he and Sherlock lost in their own thoughts.

-oOo-

Greg heard a shout from his bedroom and was immediately up, Sherlock chasing after him. He was vaguely aware of John swearing, having fallen onto the floor as Sherlock jumped to his feet, but ignored his mate in favour of finding Mycroft.

The politician was sitting up in bed, eyes wide and darting around. As soon as Greg appeared he broke down, crying again and balling his hands into fists. Greg slid onto the bed and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, making hushing noises as he held the man tightly.

'Don't go,' Mycroft begged, tears streaming down his face. 'Please, don't leave me.'

'I'm not going anywhere.'

'P-please,' Mycroft said again, voice cracking as sobs made his body shake. 'I c-can't... d-don't...'

'Myc, I'm here,' Greg said softly, running a hand through Mycroft's hair. 'Shh, it's okay.'

Mycroft buried his head into Greg's chest and continued muttering through his sobs, fingers twisting in the DI's shirt. Greg looked up to see Sherlock and John in the doorway.

Sherlock looked much like he had in the hospital; like he didn't quite believe what was happening, his mind trying to understand the emotions his heart was feeling. He gulped and looked away, pale blue eyes wavering as tears threatened to break free.

John, ever the collected one, grabbed Sherlock and pulled him into a fierce hug. He murmured something into Sherlock's ear and led him from the room.

Greg pulled Mycroft down so they were lying on the mattress, Mycroft's sobs petering out as the man wore himself down. He mumbled something else about Greg not leaving before he fell asleep again.

Greg felt a fresh crack appear in his heart as he wiped tears from Mycroft's red cheeks. He took a deep breath and closed his own eyes, trying not to let his own tears free. A few escaped, though, and Greg cried silently as he held his broken boyfriend.

-oOo-

Greg didn't leave Mycroft again until he had to use the bathroom. When he got back Mycroft was whimpering in his sleep, clawing at the sheets like he was trying to find something. Greg climbed back in and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, his boyfriend immediately going still.

Greg sighed and planted a soft kiss to Mycroft's cheek before settling down again, listening to his boyfriend's heavy breathing.

-oOo-

Greg stiffened when he heard Mycroft moan. His boyfriend yawned before shifting beneath the sheets, breathing picking up and hands moving around Greg's. Suddenly he was turning and Greg didn't know what to do. He swallowed as Mycroft rolled over to face him.

The man looked a wreck. He had dark purple bruises under his eyes and he was deathly pale. His hair stuck up crazily from his head and he had stubble along his jaw. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from too much sleep and so much crying.

Greg swallowed again, just watching as Mycroft slowly woke up and his mind started working.

Suddenly Mycroft threw his arms around Greg and pulled him in tightly, fingers digging into the DI's back and face buried in his neck.

'M-Mycroft?' Greg questioned.

'You're here,' Mycroft breathed softly.

''Course I am.'

'But...'

'But what?'

Mycroft shivered slightly and Greg pulled the blankets up, arms holding Mycroft close. 'I thought... I thought you'd be gone.'

'Why?'

'I... I cut myself.'

Greg pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft's head. 'I'm not leaving just because you cut yourself, Mycroft.'

'You aren't?'

'No,' Greg said. 'I can't, not now.'

'Good. I...' Mycroft took a deep, shaky breath before continuing. 'I need you.'

'I know,' Greg said softly. 'I'm here.'

-oOo-

They stayed holding each other for at least an hour, Mycroft whimpering every few minutes but not crying. Finally he managed to pull back and looked up at Greg with wide, fragile eyes.

'You okay?' Greg asked.

'No,' Mycroft shook his head.

'Wanna talk?' Mycroft looked away. 'Hey, we don't have to, not right now,' Greg said. 'But I want to, okay?'

Mycroft nodded slowly. 'O-okay.'

'Right,' Greg said and drew back a little.

'Where are you going?' Mycroft demanded, arms latching onto Greg. He reminded the DI of a child, one being dropped off at school for the first time. He looked panicked and scared, like he was worried about being left alone or that maybe Greg wouldn't come back.

'I need a drink,' Greg said. 'I'm not going anywhere else, I promise.'

Mycroft stared at him for a few minutes before, slowly, pulling his arms back. He curled them around himself and sat with his chin on his knees, eyes never blinking. 'Please come back soon.'

Greg nodded and rolled from the bed, quickly darting into the bathroom before heading back into the kitchen. Once again he spotted Sherlock and John on the couch, both men awake.

'He's up.'

'Good,' Sherlock murmured and stood.

'No!' the DI said sternly and Sherlock glared at him.

'Lestrade–'

'No,' Greg repeated. 'Sherlock, he needs time, alright? Just give me some time alone with him. He's fragile enough without you butting in.'

Sherlock scowled, arms crossed. 'Sherlock,' John said softly, 'just let Greg take care of him.' Sherlock glared at his husband.

'Look, I know you care,' Greg said as he poured himself a cup of water, 'but he can't handle you right now, Sherlock. I'm sorry but that's just the way it is.'

Sherlock licked his lips slowly before finally nodding and sitting back down.

'Gregory!'

Greg turned at Mycroft's shout and immediately went back to his room, slopping water down his front but not caring. Mycroft was still sitting in bed, arms wrapped around himself. His eyes locked onto Greg and he blinked.

'I'm here,' Greg said quickly, putting his water down on the bedside table.

'I thought–'

'I'm not going anywhere, Myc, I promise.'

Mycroft just stared as Greg got back into bed. The politician wasted no time in wrapping his arms back around Greg and hauling him in, once more pressing his face into Greg's chest.

'Need you,' he mumbled.

'I know,' Greg said softly.

He'd never heard Mycroft sound so broken or innocent. He really was like a child in those moments. There was no calm and collected politician, no over-protective older brother, and no passionate, giggling lover. He was just a broken man on the edge of a complete meltdown and Greg had to be there; he had to ease Mycroft through the pain.

'I know,' Greg repeated and shifted to fit their bodies together.

Mycroft's legs wrapped around one of his own and Greg smiled as Mycroft mumbled in content.

-oOo-

'I'm sorry.'

Greg had been half-dozing, for now satisfied to have Mycroft safe in his arms. It was around midday and John had popped out to grab some lunch, leaving Sherlock to sulk in the living room. While none of them were even remotely hungry, the doctor felt the need to get active and stick to routines.

The DI turned to see Mycroft staring at him, pale blue eyes wide. 'Huh?'

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft repeated.

'For what?'

'For... for cutting myself,' Mycroft said. He shifted slightly, pulling his left arm to his chest. Greg sighed and rolled over to look at him properly.

'Why'd you do it?'

Mycroft wet his lips before murmuring, 'The pain helps.'

'Helps with what?'

'It helps... helps me feel better,' Mycroft admitted. 'The pain, the blood, the... the cuts and scars, it all... it keeps the darkness away.'

Greg paused before asking, 'What darkness?'

'I don't know, it's just always there, inside me,' Mycroft said softly, looking down at the sheets. 'It makes me feel angry and... and scared.'

He'd barely mumbled the last word and Greg realised how big this was. Mycroft was confessing to not feeling normal, to feeling depressed and out of control. Greg had to be careful here; he couldn't judge, he just had to listen.

'Okay,' he said. 'So you cut yourself last night because you were upset?'

'Yes,' Mycroft said.

'Right,' the DI nodded. 'Okay, I can get that. The cutting... it helps you feel in control.'

Mycroft blinked and looked up at him. 'Yes.'

Greg nodded again, watching Mycroft carefully. The politician was on edge, waiting for Greg's reaction.

'I understand.'

Mycroft stared. 'What?'

'Well, I don't understand to feeling that... that upset,' Greg said. 'I mean, I get pissed off and sometimes life becomes hard to handle but... I've never felt _that _upset. I'm so sorry you feel that way.'

'You... you don't think it's just me being weak?'

Greg tutted. 'No, of course not. Myc, you... I get it, alright? Sometimes life becomes too much for you and... cutting helps.' He sighed before reaching forward to cup Mycroft's cheek. 'I still don't like it.'

'I don't either,' Mycroft murmured, eyes closing as he pushed into the touch. 'I don't like being weak.'

'You're not weak.'

'Cutting makes me weak,' Mycroft said. 'It makes... my arm... hurt.'

'Well what do you expect when you take a steak knife to your goddamn arm?' Greg demanded.

Mycroft pulled back quickly and Greg sighed.

'Sorry, I'm sorry,' he said. 'But... Jesus, you scared the absolute fuck out of me. I never, ever want to see you like that again, Mycroft.'

Mycroft was silent, just staring.

'Look, I... I get that you resort to self-harm to... to make yourself feel better,' Greg said.

Mycroft spoke before he could continue. 'No, it's not just that. The cutting and the drugs and... it all makes me feel... _something_.'

'Something?' Greg questioned.

'Something other than the darkness and the anger and... I don't like it, Greg, I don't like being angry and scared and...' he trailed off, tears forming in his eyes. 'The pain is different, I can handle physical pain. I can't... I can't handle emotional pain.'

_Just like Sherlock_, Greg thought. _He can get shot or stabbed and not give a fuck. But if John upsets him he completely breaks down._

'Okay,' Greg said, 'I... I suppose I can understand that. The cutting is easier to handle than anything else, right?'

Mycroft nodded.

'Does... does anything else help, with the darkness I mean?' Greg asked. 'Because Myc, I... I don't want you to hurt yourself like this.' He reached out and touched Mycroft's left arm, his boyfriend flinching. 'Is there anything else that helps push away all that other shit?'

Mycroft looked down, right hand stroking at his left arm in a unconscious gesture. 'You,' he finally mumbled.

'What?'

Mycroft looked up at him carefully, eyes suddenly serious. 'You help, Gregory. You are better than the cutting and the drugs too. I... when I'm with you I feel happy, I don't feel all the other stuff.' He bit his lip and looked back down. 'I'm happy with you.'

Greg smiled and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Mycroft's forehead. 'Good. 'Cause I'm always gonna be here, Myc, you hear me? I'm not going anywhere, ever. So if everything becomes too much, if _life _becomes too much, you can always call me. You don't have to take drugs or cut yourself. You can just call me and I'll help.'

'Really?'

'Of course,' Greg said. 'I'll drop everything for you, Mycroft.'

Mycroft looked up slowly, eyes reaching Greg's and staying there. No doubt he was searching the DI's eyes for any hint that he was lying. When he found none he gave a hesitant smile.

'Really?' he repeated.

'Yes,' Greg said.

'And you... you don't hate me?'

'No, of course not,' Greg said. 'I care about you, Mycroft. I hate some of the things you do, some of the things you've done, but I could never hate you.'

Mycroft's smile became a proper one and he shifted closer to press his lips to Greg's. It was a soft kiss, an unsure one, just like their first. Greg smiled when Mycroft pulled back.

'Thank you.'

Greg smiled before saying, 'So last night... you were angry.'

'Yes.'

'And you felt dark?'

'Yes,' Mycroft repeated.

'Was it because I pushed you?'

'No... well...' Mycroft sighed. 'You were asking about the... the cocaine incident,' he mumbled, 'and about how I felt and... I didn't want you to know.'

'Why?'

'I didn't want you to think I was weak.'

'I don't, Myc, honestly; I don't think any differently of you because of this.'

Mycroft swallowed before saying, 'I'm not used to people caring. I know my mother and brother do but nobody has ever asked, nobody has ever known about this. I'm not used to having someone like you; somebody who cares enough to ask about how I'm feeling. I don't know what to do in those situations, like when you asked me to stop reading that file. I'm so used to being in control and being in charge. But this relationship, I'm not in charge of it, Greg, and I'm not in charge of you. It's... it's a partnership and I'm not used to it. I was... I was scared of that.'

'Scared of being in a relationship with me?' Greg asked.

Mycroft's eyes went wide and he shook his head quickly. 'No, of course not. I just... I'm scared of having somebody know me so well and having somebody care for me as much as you do. I don't... I don't know what to do. So last night I... I got angry and scared and...' he trailed off and looked away.

Greg looked him over carefully before saying, 'Myc?'

'Yes?'

'Were...' Greg swallowed before asking, 'were you going to kill yourself?'

Mycroft looked up immediately, eyes locking onto his boyfriend's.

'I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but I need to know,' Greg said. He wet his lips before saying, 'If John and I hadn't found you, would you have killed yourself last night?' He needed to know how far back the politician had fallen; he needed to know if Mycroft was back to thinking that suicide was an option.

Mycroft was silent, eyes raking over the DI's face slowly. Finally he took a breath and said, 'No.'

'N-no?' Greg asked.

With a shake of his head, Mycroft said, 'No, I wasn't going to kill myself.'

'Why not?' Greg asked.

'Because,' Mycroft said softly, 'if I died I wouldn't get to see you.'

Greg knew that shouldn't have made him happy but it did. At least Mycroft was living for _something_, even if it was a grumpy old police officer. At least Greg could sleep well knowing Mycroft wasn't going to suddenly end his life.

'Promise?' he asked.

Mycroft nodded. 'I promise, Gregory. I couldn't, not now. I... I can't do that, I can't leave you.'

Greg fought off the tears that were threatening to break free and pulled Mycroft down, the taller man snuggling into Greg closely.

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled, trailing his fingers through Mycroft's hair. 'We can deal with this, Myc, okay? We'll get through this, however long it takes.'

Mycroft paused before giving a soft, 'Okay.'

Greg pulled him closer, Mycroft hugging him tightly.

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note: Thank you to the wonderful <strong>_**chasingriver **_**for quickly going over this chapter for me. You should read her stuff, it's awesome!**_


	22. Recovering

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Recovering**

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note: I apologise for how long this chapter took but I got swept up in other stories and my muse went on holiday and I had to get back in the right mind for this story. Well, my head's all black and messed up so this chapter should be too. It's here now so I hope you all enjoy!<strong>_

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><p><strong>This chapter is for: TheFallOfGallifrey, for waiting so long.<strong>

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><p>'<em>Sherlock?'<em>

_There was a sniff._

'_Lockie?'_

_Another sniff._

_Mycroft pushed the wardrobe open. Sherlock was curled up beside his clothes, back pressed to the wall of the walk-in wardrobe. His face was streaked with tears, his cheeks bruised and swollen. Mycroft sighed and crouched down to look at him._

'_Sherlock, what happened?'_

_Sherlock sniffed again and rubbed at his eyes. 'N-nothing.'_

'_Sherlock, don't lie to me.'_

_His little brother bit his lip. 'B-boys at s-school.'_

'_Yes?'_

'_They... don't like me.'_

_Mycroft sighed again and reached out, rubbing tears from his brother's face. 'It's okay, Sherlock.'_

'_S'not,' the younger Holmes mumbled. 'No one will ever l-like me... they... I'm w-weird.'_

'_So what?' Mycroft said fiercely, forcing Sherlock to look at him. 'It doesn't matter if you're weird, Sherlock. Ignore them, they're nothing.'_

'_They are?'_

'_Of course,' his older brother said sternly. Though he always felt like nothing, though life meant little to Mycroft Holmes, he wanted his brother to be happy. Even if it meant lying. 'One day you'll have a friend who sees you for how brilliant you are, Sherlock.'_

_The eleven-year-old smiled, always ready to believe Mycroft. 'I will?'_

'_Yes, I promise.'_

_Sherlock nodded and rubbed his eyes. Slowly he stood and threw his arms around Mycroft. Mycroft lifted Sherlock up, the little boy clinging to him tightly._

'_Thank you, My,' he mumbled, rubbing his face on Mycroft's expensive shirt._

_For the first time in months, Mycroft smiled. Sherlock would be fine, he knew. He'd find someone to make him happy, to help him recover from stupid school bullies who couldn't appreciate what a wonderful person he was._

_Mycroft might never find that but that didn't matter. Sherlock mattered. That was all._

* * *

><p>Greg's stomach began growling towards the afternoon and Mycroft sat up suddenly. They'd been holding each other close, Mycroft occasionally crying, Greg occasionally running his fingers through the politician's hair.<p>

'Myc?' Greg said, looking up at his partner.

'You need food,' Mycroft said and swung his legs from the bed. 'I'm sorry, I'm being selfish. You need food and water and work and...'

He trailed off when Greg put a hand on his arm.

'Myc, shut up.' Mycroft pressed his lips together. 'I'm fine.' His stomach growled again and Mycroft frowned at him. 'Well, yeah, I could go a bite to eat, but you're more important.'

'You need food.'

'M'kay, I'll eat, if that's what you want,' Greg said. He stood and stretched, Mycroft watching him. 'Come with me?' Greg asked.

Mycroft looked at the door, suddenly looking scared again. Greg rounded the bed and pulled Mycroft up and into his arms.

'Shh, it's okay.'

'I'm...' he trailed off but Greg knew; Mycroft was scared.

'I'm here, love.'

'Promise?'

Greg smiled. 'Promise.'

He kept one hand around Mycroft's as he led the way down the hallway, Mycroft shuffling after him. Sherlock and John were in the living room watching TV. Both looked up as the couple entered. Well, Sherlock jumped up.

Mycroft flinched as his brother stared at him, the room silent apart from the TV. John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed gently. Sherlock swallowed before moving away, approaching Mycroft and Greg quickly.

'Sherlock...' Greg warned. He didn't need Sherlock shouting now, not with Mycroft feeling so weak and lost.

But Sherlock didn't scream. No, instead he threw his arms around his brother and pulled him in tightly.

John and Greg both stared as Sherlock's arms snaked around Mycroft's neck, the consulting detective pushing his face into Mycroft's chest.

Mycroft kept his right hand firmly in Greg's left as Sherlock hugged him. Greg gave his fingers a squeeze as Sherlock whispered, 'I'm sorry.'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as Sherlock pulled back. 'For what?'

'For not being there for you,' Sherlock said and rubbed at an eye. 'I'm sorry, Mycroft.'

'You have nothing to apologise for, brother.'

'Well I'm saying it anyway.'

There was silence, then, both Holmes brothers staring at each other and Greg and John looking everywhere else. Finally John cleared his throat.

'Right, well Sherlock and I are gonna go get dinner.' He paused, looked Mycroft over. 'You don't have to, Mycroft, but I'd like it if you ate something, just something small.' Mycroft managed a weak nod. 'Okay. Come on, Sherlock.'

Sherlock looked at his brother one last time before grabbing his coat and leaving with John. Greg pulled Mycroft in for a hug.

'I'm okay,' Mycroft murmured.

'I know,' Greg said. 'I just... needed a hug.'

Mycroft chuckled, the sound bringing a grin to Greg's face. 'You're a terrible liar, Gregory.'

'Am not.'

'Yes you are.'

Greg smiled and pulled back to kiss Mycroft softly. 'Come on, let's watch TV.'

{oOo}

They sat on the couch waiting for Sherlock and John, watching Doctor Who and just hugging each other. Mycroft stood to get a glass of water and felt fear surge up through his gut. He groaned and fell against the fridge, anger and terror and something so dark and terrifying ripping through him.

It was like someone was gripping his heart, squeezing it until everything hurt. It just felt wrong it made his thoughts fuzzy and his body feel lethargic.

'Myc?' Greg said.

'I don't... I don't know,' Mycroft managed to choke out, dropping to sit with his back against the fridge. 'It feels wrong.'

'What does?' Greg asked softly.

'That's the problem; I don't know.' Mycroft pulled at his hair, frustrated. 'It just _hurts_.' He didn't know how to explain it; everything was wrong and his heart was black, dark, making everything seem depressing. It made Mycroft angry and he wanted to curl into a ball.

Suddenly Greg was beside him, sitting and drawing Mycroft in for a hug.

'It's okay,' he said.

'I don't know what's wrong,' Mycroft whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing the feeling would just go away. It made his body ache, his mind whirl, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Mycroft didn't know what to do.

'S'okay,' Greg whispered.

Mycroft just shuddered and buried his face into Greg's chest, hoping the feeling would pass.

{oOo}

Mycroft sat on the couch with Sherlock as Greg and John ate. Greg didn't want to leave his boyfriend alone but he was starving. Mycroft just stared, hands shaking slightly as he wrapped his arms around his legs. Sherlock looked at him for a few minutes before tentatively holding his arms out.

Mycroft fell into his brother's chest and Sherlock held him tightly, running his long, pale fingers through Mycroft's hair. Greg had never seen Sherlock look so... worried, and scared, and completely there for his brother. He now knew without a doubt that Sherlock really did care about his brother. It just took a lot for Sherlock to show it.

Done with food, Greg stood and went into the lounge room. Mycroft looked up at him and blinked quickly.

'Myc?'

Mycroft was already up, arms wrapping around Greg tightly. Greg looked at Sherlock as he pulled Mycroft in for a hug. The genius still looked worried but gulped and nodded. Greg smiled hesitantly before taking Mycroft back to his room.

Mycroft was whimpering now and shuddering, arms shaking while Greg put him in bed. He whined when Greg let him go but the DI quickly climbed into bed after him, pulling Mycroft close.

He was crying again, silent tears that rolled down his face and made him sniff. Greg didn't bother asking why Mycroft was crying. He had the feeling Mycroft himself didn't know. This wasn't a breakdown over something like work or his personal life. This was a breakdown over life; life in general, living and breathing and just _being, _had become too much for Mycroft and he'd cut himself.

Now... well all Greg could do was sit by and wait for Mycroft to pull himself together. And hopefully he could help his boyfriend get better.

Hopefully Mycroft wouldn't be crushed under the weight of the world.

{oOo}

Greg was jolted awake when the bed thumped against the wall. 'Mycroft?' he said, sitting up quickly and looking around. It was dark and Greg couldn't see anything. His bedroom door was open and he could hear someone running down the hallway.

Greg quickly leaned over and flicked his bedside lamp on. Mycroft was gone, the blankets having been thrown over Greg. With a curse, Greg pulled himself from bed and left the room.

He checked the bathroom and kitchen first before realising his front door was open. Sherlock and John were both asleep on the couch, curled around each other in a tangle of arms and legs.

Greg passed them and went through the door, shivering against the freezing cold air. He was only wearing boxers, a shirt, and socks and the wind ripped through him.

Mycroft was sitting on the bottom step, leaning against the fence beside him, arms curled around his legs.

'Mycroft?' Greg said, just relieved to have found him. The politician whimpered. 'Myc?' Greg said and put a hand on him.

Mycroft flinched and said, 'No, please, d-don't.'

'Don't what?' Greg asked.

'Don't touch me.'

Greg swallowed the pain and sat beside Mycroft on the freezing step, careful not to touch him. 'Okay, I'm sorry.'

'I don't... I can't,' Mycroft said and shook his head. He was breathing heavily, eyes closed and lips trembling. 'It was too much.'

'What was?'

'The walls were... closing in,' Mycroft managed, breathing ragged. 'It scared me.'

'The walls?' Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. 'I'm sorry, Gregory, but I couldn't stay in there. I need you but... please, don't touch me...'

He trailed off and fresh tears coated his cheeks.

'It's okay, Mycroft,' Greg said, 'I'm not leaving.'

'But I–'

'I'm not leaving,' Greg repeated. 'So you got a bit claustrophobic, so what? I'm not going anywhere.'

Mycroft gulped slowly and mumbled, 'Thank you.'

'No worries.' Greg folded his own arms and hugged himself tightly, trying to ignore the cold and the way Mycroft was shaking.

{oOo}

It took Greg a while but he managed to talk Mycroft into going back in. It was too cold to sit outside and though Mycroft fought him a bit, he finally relented as long as Greg opened his bedroom window.

Greg did, throwing the drapes open to bathe the room in moonlight. He forced Mycroft into a jumper and dressing gown, bundling himself up as he watched Mycroft sit beneath the window, breathing in deeply as cold wind swept around the room.

It was freezing, yeah, and Greg's toes felt like they were going to drop off as he huddled under the covers, but Mycroft looked better. He had a bit of colour in his pale cheeks and he wasn't shaking anymore. Greg sat in bed and watched as Mycroft breathed deeply.

About three hours and a tingling sensation in his right leg later, Mycroft stood.

'Myc? You okay?' Greg asked, immediately looking up from where he'd been thumping his leg to stop the pins and needles.

Mycroft took off the dressing gown and jumper as he crawled under the covers with Greg. He licked his lips slowly before opening his arms. Greg smiled and crawled into his embrace, feeling Mycroft's slightly cold arms hug him tightly.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured.

'Don't be.'

'But I am.'

'Shh.'

'Greg–'

'Shh, sleepy time.'

He felt Mycroft smile slightly before they coth closed their eyes.

{oOo}

They'd been awake about an hour when suddenly Mycroft's soft kisses turned needy. He sucked Greg's tongue into his mouth and rolled back, pulling until Greg was between his legs. Greg kissed him for a minute before pulling back.

'Please,' Mycroft whispered.

Greg didn't see how sex could make anything worse so went with it, wanting to comfort Mycroft any way he could. If Mycroft wanted sex, if sex could help, Greg would comply.

They were kissing again, lips and tongues sloppy but sure. Mycroft pulled at Greg's shirt and got it off, rubbing his hands down Greg's chest, his stomach. Greg got Mycroft's shirt free and licked a trail down to his nipples, sucking back on the pink nubs until they hardened under his tongue.

Mycroft moaned as Greg slid his pyjama pants off, kicking his own free. He groped through the drawer of his bedside table and managed to find the bottle of lube. He popped the cap free and looked at Mycroft.

'Please, I need you,' Mycroft said, pushing his hips up, cock already erect and leaking pre-come. Greg slathered his cock in cool liquid and shifted.

He pressed into Mycroft slowly, the politician letting out a breathy moan. Greg set up a steady, slow rhythm, Mycroft pushing to meet his thrusts. He kept his arms around Greg, dragging the DI down so they could kiss and press together.

Their breath mingled together as they groaned and grunted into each other's mouths, Greg wrapping a hand around Mycroft's leaking erection. He pulled slowly in time with their movements, Mycroft biting and licking his way into Greg's mouth.

Their orgasms were built up to slowly and drawn out, Mycroft whimpering as he climaxed over his stomach and Greg's hand. Greg buried his face into Mycroft's neck, licking and nipping at his boyfriend's pale and sweaty skin as he emptied himself into the taller man.

Greg rolled onto his side and made to stand, to get a towel, but Mycroft wasn't having any of that. He latched onto Greg and held him close, breathing heavily as his sweat-soaked skin rubbed against Greg's.

'Please stay,' he mumbled.

'I will,' Greg breathed. He kissed Mycroft softly as the politician fell asleep, face pressed into Greg's chest. He looked calm and happy as he slept, lips parting as he breathed through his mouth. He didn't long angry or lost anymore, just calm and collected and... happy.

Greg looked up when he heard the door pushed open. Sherlock poked his head in, no doubt drawn by the noises he'd heard.

'Oh,' he said softly.

'He's okay,' Greg said.

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip. 'Thank you, Gregory.'

Greg gave him a smile. 'S'alright.'

Sherlock nodded again and left, his voice carrying as he told John that Mycroft was alright. Greg settled down to watch his boyfriend sleep, trailing his fingers through Mycroft's wet hair.

{oOo}

Mycroft seemed like a shell for the rest of the day after waking, walking and sitting and breathing like he was on auto-pilot. Greg was worried but John explained calmly that he was just working through the anger, the hurt, trying to keep himself together while he fought his own emotions. Greg didn't like it; what could he do to help?

All it seemed he could do was be there for Mycroft; be the comforting hand when Mycroft linked their fingers, be the shoulder to cry on when tears broke free and coated Mycroft's cheeks. All he could be was the comforting rock that Mycroft clung to as his own mind and body tried to drag him down.

They went to Mycroft's that night. Sherlock didn't want to leave Mycroft but he and John couldn't sleep on Greg's couch again. They ordered takeaway and Mycroft managed to chew on a spring roll for a good hour, the outer layer cracking as he sucked it between his lips. He just stared at the TV, sitting against Greg on his expensive couch.

Sherlock and John retired around midnight and Greg and Mycroft fell asleep on the couch, spring roll on Greg's lap as he and Mycroft lay curled around each other, fingers linked tightly.

{oOo}

Greg woke to Sherlock poking him. He yawned and rolled his neck, feeling tired and old as he blinked back sleep. Falling asleep on the couch at his age definitely wasn't a good idea. 'What?' he yawned.

'Mycroft's getting dressed,' Sherlock said.

Greg thanked him and went to Mycroft's room. The politician was in a pair of trousers and buttoning up his coat. He turned to look at Greg and smiled. It was an actual smile, one that reached his eyes, and Greg felt like he might be the one to start crying. There was still hurt there, still something that was shaking Mycroft and pulling him down, but he looked... better.

'Come for a walk with me?' Mycroft asked.

Greg changed into some jeans and a jumper, shrugging into his coat as Mycroft pulled on his shoes. They left Sherlock and John in the kitchen, the doctor handing across a napkin full of toast.

Greg and Mycroft walked down the street together, Greg with an arm around Mycroft's waist while he munched on strawberry jam covered toast. It was early but there were still people bustling about, heading to work or home or wherever they were needed.

'Can I have some toast?' Mycroft asked suddenly.

Greg held out the stack and Mycroft took a piece, nibbling on the edges slowly as they walked.

He managed one and a half pieces, licking jam from the toast before starting on the bread itself. Greg just grinned like an idiot. Mycroft was eating and smiling and talking, commenting on people walking past and giving Greg their life stories.

It was just a walk, just a few hours together on a cold Monday morning, but for Greg it was the best moments he'd experienced in days. Mycroft was slowly getting better.

He was recovering.

{oOo}

Mycroft managed some lunch and dinner too, slurping spoonfuls of noodles as he and Greg sat in front of the TV. John had work and Sherlock was busy running experiments back at 221B. Greg guessed Sherlock just wanted to give him and Mycroft some time alone together.

Mycroft had his legs crossed on the couch, tilting his head as he watched the cricket.

'And you enjoy this game?' he asked, fork stuck into the instant noodle cup.

'Yep,' Greg said.

'Why?'

'It's fun,' Greg said. 'Normally I don't bother watching Australian matches because Australia always wins but they lost a lot of good players to retirement; Brett Lee, Adam Gilchrist, Shane Warne and Matthew Hayden all retired so there's a massive gap in the Aussie test side.'

Mycroft just stared at him, sucking liquid from his thumb.

'They've still got Ponting and Hussey but most of the bowlers are young blokes,' Greg said, eyes fixed on the screen where the Aussie bowler Hilfenhaus was glaring at the New Zealander Daniel Vettori, who'd just hit him for six. 'New Zealand's got a good team and Australia seems to be getting better, they've got a few good players still and the young guys are getting there.'

'I see...' Mycroft said slowly and smiled when Greg jumped to his feet, pumping his fist as Vettori hit another six. 'Why are you so excited?'

'Another six, Myc!' Greg grinned. 'New Zealand are so winning.'

Mycroft turned back to the TV, eyes flicking from the players to the scoreboard at the bottom of the screen. 'Hmm...'

'What?' Greg asked.

'Australia will win,' Mycroft said in a way that left little doubt that he was right.

'No way, they only need a hundred off a hundred and fifty balls,' Greg said, 'easy for Vettori.'

'Daniel Vettori has a small injury in his left ankle,' Mycroft explained. 'He's barely noticing it now but as the day wears on it'll become more obvious. He'll screw up when he goes to hit the ball hard and his ankle makes his swing weaker. He will be out in fifteen balls.'

Greg narrowed his eyes. 'Care to make a wager?'

Mycroft smiled. 'But of course, Gregory, as long as you don't mind losing.'

'I ain't losing,' Greg said and sat heavily. He held out his hand. 'Twenty quid?'

'Or the loser has to do whatever Sherlock says for an entire day.'

Greg groaned.

Mycroft just held out his own hand, an eyebrow arched. 'If you're so sure of yourself, you won't mind.'

'Fine,' Greg said and shook his hand.

'New Zealand will lose by at least ten runs, Vettori will be out in the next three overs, and Michael Clarke will take the winning wicket,' Mycroft said.

Greg snorted. 'Well aren't you just a know-it-all.'

Mycroft grinned.

{oOo}

Daniel Vettori was out two overs later, limping from the pitch with two men either side as he favoured his right leg. Clarke and the Aussies were cheering and slapping each other, Ben Hilfenhaus having taken the wicket. Greg scowled at Mycroft, who grinned around his fork-full of noodles.

They were 9/210, New Zealand needing ten runs to win from three balls. The captain, Ross Taylor, was at the crease, bat thumping against the pitch as he looked up to face the Aussie captain, Michael Clarke. He'd hit three sixes in the last over, bringing New Zealand closer to victory.

Greg was on the edge of his seat, literally, noddles abandoned on the coffee table as he stared at the screen. Mycroft watched him with a smile as Clarke ran towards the pitch, arm coming up, ball being released, Taylor swiping...

The bat slammed into the ball and went flying, right over the bowler and umpire, spinning through the air.

'Yes!' Greg shouted and stood, sure the ball was going to go straight over the rope and into the crowd for another six.

It fell short and Greg watched, mouth falling open in horror as the ball shot straight into Michael Hussey's hands. He hoped for a miracle, hoped Mr Cricket would drop the ball and at least give New Zealand two runs.

No, he had it, fingers clasped around the red ball tightly.

'No!' Greg groaned as the commentators went crazy, applauding Australia and Hussey as Taylor pulled off his helmet, no doubt swearing under his breath.

It was all over; the players shaking hands as they walked across the boiling hot pitch of Adelaide, Australia. Greg groaned again and fell to sit. Mycroft was smiling.

'Shut up,' Greg grumbled.

Vettori had been out in under three overs, New Zealand all out needing ten runs to win, and Michael Clarke had taken the run.

Mycroft had been right on all three accounts.

'It's just a game, Gregory, one that England didn't even play in.'

'I love cricket regardless of who's playing,' Greg said and fell back to slouch on the couch. 'It always makes me feel better if I've had a crappy day. Watching the players do something they love, seeing the crowd, you get caught up in the atmosphere. It makes a bad day good.'

Mycroft smiled.

'And you won, damn it.'

With a chuckle, Mycroft put down his empty cup and pulled Greg into a hug. 'It's alright, love, I won't make you do whatever Sherlock wants.'

'A bet's a bet,' Greg said.

'Mm, but I'd rather you keep all your limbs.'

Greg smiled and snuggled into Mycroft's side as the TV cut to another cricket game, this one an older 20/20 between India and England. Greg looked up at Mycroft.

'Give me five minutes and I'll tell you who will win,' Mycroft said.

Greg grinned. 'We could make some bets with your talent.'

Mycroft tisked but he was smiling as he looked at the TV.

{oOo}

It wasn't until hours later, curled up with Mycroft in the politician's very nice bed, that Greg realised Mycroft had spent more than half the day grinning as he and Greg made bets on the 20/20 match.

Greg grinned and snuggled closer into Mycroft's chest. It seemed he wasn't the only one who felt better after a good game of cricket.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: I once again apologise for this chapter taking so long but I wasn't sure what I wanted to say and I couldn't get in the right mindset. After spending the day feeling generally sad, irritable, and mainly depressed, I could finally write this chapter.<strong>_

_**And then I watched a game of cricket between India and Australia (I love cricket, if that's not obvious and yes, people think it's weird when they learn I'm a girl and I'm obsessed with it) I started to feel better until I could smile a bit. I still don't fell all there but cricket helped so I figured it might help Mycroft too.**_

_**Hope you've enjoyed this chapter and hopefully the next one won't take another month.**_

_**Cheers.**_


	23. Drink

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Drink**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: Once again I apologise for how long this chapter took but as the story is drawing to a close, Johnny refuses to work on it. I think that maybe he doesn't want it to end. Anyway, enjoy :)<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Warnings: If you haven't readwatched Harry Potter there are some spoilers like references to character deaths.**

* * *

><p>On Tuesday Greg woke to Mycroft crying again, the politician curled up under the blankets. Greg made him turn and Mycroft fell into him, burying his face in Greg's chest to whimper.<p>

'It's okay,' Greg soothed. 'I'm here.'

Mycroft just cried for most of the day.

{oOo}

Wednesday found Mycroft hugging whatever was close; pillows, blankets, Greg, even a bottle of coke. He'd just sit and stare, holding whatever object he had close. Greg sat with him, tried to get him to talk, but all Mycroft managed was a mumble. He didn't eat anything and looked like he was going to be violently ill when Greg tried to get him to eat a piece of chicken.

Greg gave up after that.

{oOo}

Thursday was better. Mycroft hugged Greg close and kissed him, apologised for being such a messed up bastard. Greg waved his apologies away. None of this was Mycroft's fault, he knew that. The DI was constantly remembering John's words on Mycroft possibly being bipolar. He'd Googled the condition and it seemed to fit Mycroft.

Mycroft ate a little breakfast, managing half a slice of toast and a bite of Greg's apple. Afterwards he curled up on the couch, hugging Greg. He asked why Greg wasn't at work but the DI shushed him and kissed him softly. Anthea had called him after the knife incident to ask if he wanted time off. Greg couldn't go to work, not when Mycroft needed him.

They watched all the Harry Potter movies, Mycroft nodding off during the third and sixth ones. Each time he'd wake and apologise but again Greg just ignored them, told Mycroft he didn't care. He'd press a kiss to Mycroft's lips and smile when Mycroft grinned.

Dinner was pizza eaten on the couch, Mycroft munching on a piece as Greg waved his about, fighting with John Watson over who was the better character; Remus Lupin or Severus Snape.

'Snape's just... he's _awesome_,' Greg repeated for the twelfth time.

'Lupin's a werewolf,' John countered.

'Snape's a good guy, then a bad guy, then a good guy, then a bad guy, then–'

'Lupin got the girl and had a kid.'

'Then he died,' Greg said.

John smirked over his beer. 'Yeah, so did Snape.'

'He actually _had _a death scene!' Greg pouted.

John rolled his eyes. 'Whatever.'

Greg fell back onto the couch and picked at his pizza slice. Mycroft smiled and leaned over to eat a piece of pepperoni. 'I agree with you, Gregory; Snape is a far better character. He has substance, mystery, and can be very evil. I like that.'

Greg looked at him. 'You do?'

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded.'

'See!' Greg said to John.

The doctor looked at his own boyfriend. 'Well Sherlock agrees with me, don't you?'

Sherlock looked up from the case file he was reading and blinked. 'What?'

'Who's better; Snape or Lupin?' John asked.

Sherlock was silent a second before asking, 'Who are they?'

John groaned and Greg fist-pumped the air. Mycroft chuckled.

{oOo}

Friday was spent relatively normally. Greg and Mycroft woke up together and shared soft, languid kisses before showering together. Mycroft ate two pieces of toast with cheese and tomato, Greg grinning as he did.

They read for most of the morning; Greg lying on the couch, Mycroft between his legs. The politician was re-reading Harry Potter and had already breezed through the first two. He flicked through the pages as he read, Greg looking down at him. He hadn't cried in two days or had any type of breakdown. It made Greg grin.

Mycroft wanted to go out for lunch and it took him half-an-hour to convince Greg that yes, he was fine, no, he wouldn't go crazy and leave, and yes, he'd eat.

They went to a Thai restaurant and sat outside, puffing on cigarettes and chatting softly. Mycroft ate most of his food and Greg grinned. Mycroft caught him and smirked, sipping his lemonade. It just made Greg grin more.

The afternoon was devoted to re-watching the third and sixth Harry Potter movies because Mycroft had missed them the previous day. He asked questions throughout, not as familiar with the world as Greg was.

Greg was happy to answer each and every question and did so until Mycroft began falling asleep again. He tried to stay awake but Greg finally turned everything off and took him to bed.

'No,' Mycroft whined as he was made to sit on the bed. 'It's only six.'

The breakdown had left Mycroft tired all the time and Greg made him slip his shoes off. 'Mycroft, let's go to bed.'

'No,' Mycroft pouted, folding his arms as Greg tried to get his waistcoat off.

'Mycroft.'

'Nope.'

Greg pushed him back and started tickling, Mycroft giggling uncontrollably. He tried to push Greg back but wasn't strong enough, another fit of giggles overcoming him. Finally Greg managed to get the waistcoat free and stood back, grinning.

'I hate you,' Mycroft gasped, trying to suck in as much air as he could.

'Nah ah,' Greg teased. 'You like me.'

'Do not.'

'Yup.'

Mycroft scowled but a smile finally overtook and he couldn't help but smile. 'Fine. But now I'm not tired.'

'I am,' Greg said and made a big show of yawning. Mycroft rolled his eyes but changed anyway, joining Greg in bed a few minutes later. 'Sleep.'

'No,' Mycroft yawned.

'Sleep.'

'No.'

'Mycroft,' Greg whispered.

The politician was snoring softly.

{oOo}

The weekend was spent in relative peace, if you didn't count Mycroft and Sherlock arguing about... something. They were using technical terms, shouting about the periodic table as they faced off over the kitchen table.

Greg and John ignored them, opting for discussing Doctor Who and cricket. When the brothers were done, Sherlock pouting as he wrapped his arms around John, Mycroft whispered, 'I'm sorry.'

Greg shrugged. 'Doesn't matter.' He'd actually enjoyed the argument; it meant Mycroft was getting back to normal. He actually cared when Sherlock got something wrong.

Greg realised Sherlock was smiling at him across the table. Slowly Greg smiled back.

{oOo}

Monday morning Greg's mobile rang and he answered, having a short, heated discussion with his boss. When he hung up he turned to look at Mycroft, who was curled up on the couch in his study.

'You have to go to work,' Mycroft said. A statement, not a question.

'Sherlock's going berserk and they want me in,' Greg said. 'Mycroft, I don't–'

'You have to go, it's your job,' Mycroft interrupted.

Greg sighed. 'But...'

'I'm fine, Gregory. I'll be fine.'

'Are you sure?' Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. 'I'll call if I have any trouble.'

Greg sat on the couch and pulled Mycroft in for a soft kiss. 'Promise me,' he said. 'Promise that the minute you start to feel scared or unwell you'll call me.'

'I will, I promise,' Mycroft said.

Greg kissed him again. 'Maybe call Anthea and get her to give you something to work on?' he suggested.

Mycroft nodded. 'I will, Gregory,' he said and pulled the DI up, leading him to his room to get changed.

{oOo}

Anthea sent him a file and Mycroft spent the entire day reading it over, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he tried to come up with a plan. Gregory called every hour or so, asking if Mycroft was okay. The politician was fine, really. He didn't feel as angry, as scared, as he had the previous few days. He felt... normal.

Finally Mycroft thought of a solution to the file and called his assistant back.

Now all he could do was wait.

{oOo}

'Well?' Mycroft asked as soon as Anthea called him.

'_Sir..._' Anthea hesitated.

Mycroft swallowed. 'What? A, what is it?'

'_Are you alone_?'

'Tell me what's wrong.'

She sighed, the same sigh Mycroft had heard hundreds of times in the past.

He only heard it when Anthea had bad news.

'_Sir, your plan... it went wrong._' Mycroft felt like his heart had stopped as his assistant continued. '_We lost all our agents, sir._'

'All twenty-three?' Mycroft managed to whisper.

'_Yes, sir_.'

'I see.'

'_Perhaps you should call Gregory, Mr Holmes_.'

'No,' Mycroft murmured, falling back into his seat. He stared at the door, a feeling of utter hopelessness spreading across him. Twenty-three people.

_Twenty-three _people.

'Gregory's working.'

'_I can call your brother, sir, or Doctor Watson_.'

'No, that's okay, A,' Mycroft said. He sounded calm, he sounded like he was in-control... he wasn't. 'Thank you, my dear.'

'_Sir_–'

Mycroft hung up and stood. He stepped from his study quickly and headed down the hallway. He pushed open the door of the guest room, thankful Sherlock and John were out. He searched the room quickly before finding the box under the bed. Really, it was a place a child might hide something. Mycroft thought his brother would make it harder.

The box was still full of alcohol; the alcohol Sherlock had taken the first day Mycroft got home from the hospital. The politician plucked a bottle of expensive bourbon from the cardboard and left the box on the bed as he went back to his study.

He closed the door and flicked the light off, shrouding himself in darkness. He leaned against the wall and sighed, rubbing his aching eyes. He looked down at the bottle before twisting the cap free.

Mycroft took a long drink, the alcohol burning down his throat as he swallowed. He chugged back a quarter of the amber liquid before he wiped at his eyes. He realised he was crying and then there was no stopping it. Sobs raked his body and he shuddered, knuckles turning white as he gripped the bottle.

He slid to sit on the floor and drank more bourbon, eyesight wavering as he slipped into a drunken haze. Anger and fear was clawing its way through his gut, twisting and burning every fibre of his being.

He had killed twenty-three people.

Mycroft Holmes, the most dangerous man in the world, had taken twenty-three good people from their families; from their friends and loved ones. He'd screwed up, he'd made a mistake. His mistake had cost twenty-three people their lives.

Closing his eyes slowly, Mycroft took another sip of bourbon and tried to ignore the feelings stampeding through his body. He didn't want to be unhappy, he didn't want to let this feeling take hold. But it was getting harder and harder. Suddenly Mycroft's hands began shaking and he knew he couldn't keep it away anymore.

Mycroft wanted to hit something. He wanted to slash his skin open and watch the blood flow quickly. He wanted to inject cocaine into his veins and feel it spike and burn. He wanted... he wanted to feel _something_, something other than the crushing devastation that was taking over.

But his mind, instead of thinking of drugs or razor blades, focused on Greg. Greg would be devastated if Mycroft cut himself again or if he snorted cocaine. His eyes would be lowered, his body tense as one again he soothed Mycroft through his breakdown.

Mycroft wouldn't do that again. No, he _couldn't _do that again. He couldn't disappoint Greg. He wanted to be strong, he wanted to be able to take care of his boyfriend. Greg didn't want him to turn to drugs or self-mutilation.

But it was hard. Mycroft's skin ached for something; a blade, a needle, something to make the pain go away. It wouldn't shut up, his body was shaking and his mind whirled.

Slowly Mycroft dug his BlackBerry out of his pocket and dialled quickly.

'_Lestrade_.'

'Gregory?' Mycroft whispered.

'_Mycroft?_' He could hear the anger, the hurt, the depression in Mycroft's voice.'_What's wrong_?' he asked quickly.

Mycroft blinked through the tears and took a shuddering breath. 'I... I need you...'

'_Where are you_?' Greg asked quickly, worry spiking through his voice.

'I...' Mycroft swallowed. 'I'm... m-my study.'

'_Stay right there, Mycroft_,' Greg said and the politician could hear him moving. '_Stay there and don't do anything, okay? Promise me you won't do anything_.'

'I... I can't.'

'_Mycroft, don't, please_!' Greg shouted.

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft whispered. He dropped his BlackBerry and closed his eyes, Greg's voice shouting from the phone.

{oOo}

Sherlock and John were both stuck in a cell at Scotland Yard. Nobody would listen to the sociopath; they didn't believe that a family member was actually in trouble. Greg couldn't waste time bailing them out and tore through London in his unmarked car, breaking twenty laws by the time he got to Mycroft's flat and not caring in the slightest.

He pulled up outside the building and ripped the keys from the ignition before falling out the door. He ran into the building and into the elevator, stabbing at the button viciously even when the doors closed.

Finally they opened and Greg sprinted to Mycroft's door. His hands were shaking but he managed to get the door open. The flat was quiet, dark, and Greg nearly broke his hip on the kitchen table. He stumbled to Mycroft's study and pushed the door open.

He thanked God when he found it unlocked. The room was in darkness and Greg groped for the switch.

_Please let Mycroft be alive_, he begged. _Please, please, please._

Mycroft wasn't at his desk and Greg flicked his eyes around the room. The politician was sitting in the corner, looking much like he did that night in Greg's flat; arms on his knees, head down. He had a half-empty bottle of bourbon in one hand.

'Mycroft?' Greg asked, stepping further into the room and approaching quickly.

Mycroft jumped at the noise and looked up. His eyes were red and wet, tears dripping down his chin. 'Greg-ry?' he whispered, voice slurred from alcohol.

'Hey,' Greg said and fell to his knees. He took Mycroft's face in his hands.

'You came.'

''Course I did,' Greg said. 'Are you okay?'

'No,' Mycroft shook his head. 'N-no.'

'What happened?' Greg asked. He noted that Mycroft's sleeves were still down, his cuffs buttoned.

'I m-made a mistake,' Mycroft said slowly, eyes wavering as they tried to lock onto Greg's face. 'I... I killed people.'

'What?'

'Plan... went w-wrong,' Mycroft continued, licking his lips. 'Twenty-three agents... d-died.' Fresh tears streaked down his face and he dropped his head.

'Hey, don't,' Greg said and drew his chin up. 'You can tell me, Myc.'

'I killed twenty-three p-people,' Mycroft murmured. 'S'my fault.'

'It's not,' Greg tried and Mycroft shook his head. 'Myc, come on.'

'I'm sorry.'

'About what?'

Mycroft looked back up at him, blue eyes wide. 'I didn't... I had to... to drink.' He swallowed and lifted the bourbon bottle. 'I'm s-sorry.'

Greg managed a smile. 'It's okay, Myc, really. You've had a hard day.'

'You don't h-hate me?'

''Course not.'

'Good,' Mycroft murmured and let his head drop. He held up the bottle and Greg took it, putting the cap back on before dropping it. He sat beside Mycroft and pulled him in close. 'Good,' the politician repeated.

'It's okay,' Greg said and wiped tears from Mycroft's face.

'Don't go,' Mycroft whispered. 'I-I didn't cut myself. I didn't... didn't... cocaine.' He shook his head slowly before pressing his face into Greg's chest. 'N-no cocaine.'

'No,' Greg nodded. 'No cocaine.'

'Couldn't,' Mycroft mumbled.

'Why?' Greg asked. He'd feared Mycroft was calling because he was high or something. And after hearing about the mistake, Greg thought Mycroft really had every right to blast away his troubles with drugs. Greg had never been responsible for the deaths of twenty-three people. He didn't know how Mycroft hadn't fallen off the wagon.

'Couldn't,' Mycroft repeated slowly. 'You don't want me to... I don't want to, no more.'

'No more?' Greg said.

Mycroft shook his head and breathed out heavily against Greg's coat. 'Don't need to,' he said softly. 'I have... have you.'

Greg smiled and squeezed Mycroft's shoulder. 'Yeah,' he said softly, 'you do.'

Mycroft murmured something else but Greg didn't hear it. The politician began nodding off and Greg dragged him up. Mycroft was very, very drunk and Greg practically carried him to bed. He took off Mycroft's shoes, waistcoat and tie, untucking his shirt before pushing him under the covers.

Mycroft shook slightly and started slurring loudly when Greg pulled away. The DI quickly shed his own clothes and climbed into the bed. Mycroft immediately went quiet, head resting on one of Greg's arms.

'Go to sleep,' Greg whispered. They could talk in the morning when Mycroft was sober.

Mycroft muttered something softly.

'What?' Greg said.

'Need you...' Mycroft mumbled, eyes drifting shut, '... love you.'

Greg suddenly felt like there was a boulder in his throat. He swallowed hard as Mycroft's breathing began to deepen. He leaned forward carefully and whispered, 'I love you, Mycroft Holmes.'

'Mm,' Mycroft mumbled, a small smile playing at his lips. His fingers tightened in Greg's shirt before he started snoring softly.

Greg let out a long sigh. Okay, Mycroft had got drunk, but that was okay, especially after what he'd told Greg. Yeah, he'd turned to alcohol which was never healthy but really, a lot of people, including Greg, did that.

Mycroft _hadn't _turned to drugs or cutting. The man had savagely cut up his arm after a fight with Greg just over a week ago. But he hadn't this time. He'd just got drunk. _And _he'd called Greg for help. He'd admitted he needed the DI and called him.

That made Greg smile and feel like he was getting somewhere. This was a small step back; the alcohol didn't matter, not when Mycroft was finally opening up and sharing his fears, his problems, with Greg.

He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft's forehead before pulling out his mobile. He let Sherlock and John know that Mycroft was okay before pressing himself closer to his boyfriend and closing his eyes.


End file.
